ATLANTIC    TALES 

// 
A  COLLECTION   OF   STORIES 

From  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS 
1866. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1865,  by 

TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 


MY  DOUBLE  ;  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID 

ME 

THE  DIAMOND  LENS 

LIFE  IN  THE  IRON-MILLS     .     .     . 

THE  PURSUIT  OF  KNOWLEDGE  UN- 
DER DIFFICULTIES     .... 

A  RAFT  THAT  NO  MAN  MADE  .  . 
WHY  THOMAS  WAS  DISCHARGED  . 
VICTOR  AND  JACQUELINE  .  .  . 

ELKANAH     BREWSTER'S    TEMPTA- 
TION     

TIE  QUEEN  OF  THE  RED  CHESS- 
MEN      

MlSS   LUCINDA 

THE  DENSLOW  PALACE  .... 
FRTEND  ELI'S  DAUGHTER  .  .  . 
A  HALF-LIFE  AND  HALF  A  LIFE  . 
THE  MAN  WITHOUT  A  COUNTRY  . 


PAGE 

Edward  Everett  Hale  I 

Fitz  James  O'Brien  .  21 

Miss  R.  B.  Harding  50 

Gail  Hamilton     .     .  93 

< 

Robert  T.  S.  Lowell .  147 

George  Arnold     .     .  162 

Miss  Caroline  Chesebro  1 80 


Charles  Nordhoff 


248 


Miss  Lucretia  P.  Hale  271 

Miss  Rose  Terry  .     .  299 

J.  D.  Whelpley  .     .  336 

Bayard  Taylor     .     .  367 

Miss  E.  H.  Appleton  398 

Edward  Everett  Hale  448 


M11967 


MY    DOUBLE; 


AND    HOW   HE   UNDID    ME 


T  is  not  often  that  I  trouble  you,  my  readers.  I 
should  not  trouble  you  now,  but  for  the  importu- 
nities of  my  wife,  who  "  feels  to  insist "  that  a  duty 
to  society  is  unfulfilled,  till  I  have  told  why  I  had  to  have  a 
double,  and  how  he  undid  me.  She  is  sure,  she  says,  that 
intelligent  persons  cannot  understand  that  pressure  upon 
public  servants  which  alone  drives  any  man  into  the  em- 
ployment of  a  double.  And  while  I  fear  she  thinks,  at  the 
bottom  of  her  heart,  that  my  fortunes  will  never  be  remade, 
she  has  a  faint  hope,  that,  as  another  Rasselas,  I  may  teach 
a  lesson  to  future  publics,  from  which  they  may  profit, 
though  we  die.  Owing  to  the  behavior  of  my  double,  or,  if 
you  please,  to  that  public  pressure  which  compelled  me  to 
employ  him,  I  have  plenty  of  leisure  to  write  this  communi- 
cation. 

I  am,  or  rather  was,  a  minister,  of  the  Sandemanian  con- 
nection. I  was  settled  in  the  active,  wide-awake  town  of 
Naguadavick,  on  one  of  the  finest  water-powers  in  Maine. 
We  used  used  to  call  it  a  Western  town  in  the  heart  of  the 
civilization  of  New  England.  A  charming  place  it  was  and 
is.  A  spirited,  brave  young  parish  had  I  ;  and  it  seemed  as 
if  we  might  have  all  "the  joy  of  eventful  living"  to  our 
hearts'  content. 

Alas  !  how  little  we  knew  on  the  day  of  my  ordination, 

I  A 


2     ,->.,  My  Double  ;  and  how  ke  undid  me. 

and^  in  those  halcyon  moments  of  our  first  housekeeping  ! 
{To  -be.1  the  confidential  friend  in  a  hundred  families  in  the 
town,  — •  cutting  the  social  trifle,  as  my  friend  Haliburton 
says,  "  from  the  top  of  the  whipped-syllabub  to  the  bottom 
of  the  sponge-cake,  which  is  the  foundation,"  —  to  keep 
abreast  of  the  thought  of  the  age  in  one's  study,  and  to  do 
one's  best  on  Sunday  to  interweave  that  thought  with  the 
active  life  «of  an  active  town,  and  to  inspirit  both  and  make 
both  infinite  by  glimpses  of  the  Eternal  Glory,  seemed  such 
an  exquisite  forelock  into  one's  life  !  Enough  to  do,  and  all 
so  real  and  so  grand  !  If  this  vision  could  only  have  lasted. 
The  truth  is,  that  this  vision  was  not  in  itself  a  delusion, 
nor,  indeed,  half  bright  enough.  If  one  could  only  have 
been  left  to  do  his  own  business,  the  vision  would  have  ac- 
complished itself  and  brought  out  new  paraheliacal  visions, 
each  as  bright  as  the  original.  The  misery  was  and  is,  as 
we  found  out,  I  and  Polly,  before  long,  that,  besides  the 
vision,  and  besides  the  usual  human  and  finite  failures  in 
life,  (such  as  breaking  the  old  pitcher  that  came  over  in  the 
"  Mayflower,"  and  putting  into  the  fire  the  Alpenstock  with 
which  her  father  climbed  Mont  Blanc,)  —  besides  these,  I 
say,  (imitating  the  style  of  Robinson  Crusoe,)  there  were 
pitchforked  in  on  us  a  great  rowen-heap  of  humbugs, 
handed  down  from  some  unknown  seed-time,  in  which  we 
were  expected,  and  I  chiefly,  to  fulfil  certain  public  functions 
before  the  community,  of  the  character  of  those  fulfilled  by 
the  third  row  of  supernumeraries  who  stand  behind  the 
Sepoys  in  the  spectacle  of  the  "  Cataract  of  the  Ganges." 
They  were  the  duties,  in  a  word,  which  one  performs  as 
member  of  one  or  another  social  class  or  subdivision,  wholly 
distinct  from  what  one  does  as  A.  by  himself  A.  What  in- 
visible power  put  these  functions  on  me,  it  would  be  very 
hard  to  tell.  But  such  power  there  was  and  is.  And  I  had 
not  been  at  work  a  year  before  I  found  I  was  living  two 
lives,  one  real  and  one  merely  functional,  —  for  two  sets  of 
people,  one  my  parish,  whom  I  loved,  and  the  other  a  vague 
public,  for  whom  I  did  not  care  two  straws.  All  this  was  in 


My  Double  ;  and  how  he  zmdid  me.  3 

a  vague  notion,  which  everybody  had  and  has,  that  this  sec- 
ond life  would  eventually  bring  out  some  great  results,  un- 
known at  present,  to  somebody  somewhere. 

Crazed  by  this  duality  of  life,  I  first  read  Dr.  Wigan  on 
the  "  Duality  of  the  Brain,"  hoping  that  I  could  train  one 
side  of  my  head  to  do  these  outside  jobs,  and  the  other  to 
do  my  intimate  and  real  duties.  For  Richard  Greenough 
once  told  me,  that,  in  studying  for  the  statue  of  Franklin, 
he  found  that  the  left  side  of  the  great  man's  face  was  philo- 
sophic and  reflective,  and  the  right  side  funny  and  smiling. 
If  you  will  go  and  look  at  the  bronze  statue,  you  will  find  he 
has  repeated  this  observation  there  for  posterity.  The  east- 
ern profile  is  the  portrait  of  the  statesman  Franklin,  the 
western  of  Poor  Richard.  But  Dr.  Wigan  does  not  go  into 
these  niceties  of  this  subject,  and  I  failed.  It  was  then, 
that,  on  my  wife's  suggestion,  I  resolved  to  look  out  for  a 
Double. 

I  was,  at  first,  singularly  successful.  We  happened  to  be 
recreating  at  Stafford  Springs  that  summer.  We  rode  out 
one  day,  for  one  of  the  relaxations  of  that  watering-place,  to 
the  great  Monson  Poor-House.  We  were  passing  through 
one  of  the  large  halls,  when  my  destiny  was  fulfilled  !  I 
saw  my  man  ! 

He  was  not  shaven.  He  had  on  no  spectacles.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  green  baize  roundabout  and  faded  blue  over- 
alls, worn  sadly  at  the  knee.  But  I  saw  at  once  that  he  was 
of  my  height,  five  feet  four  and  a  half.  He  had  black  hair, 
worn  off  by  his  hat.  So  have  and  have  not  I.  He  stooped 
in  walking.  So  do  I.  His  hands  were  large,  and  mine. 
And  —  choicest  gift  of  Fate  in  all  —  he  had,  not  "  a  straw- 
berry-mark on  his  left  arm,"  but  a  cut  from  a  juvenile  brick- 
bat over  his  right  eye,  slightly  affecting  the  play  of  that  eye- 
brow. Reader,  so  have  I !  —  My  fate  was  sealed  ! 

A  word  with  Mr.  Holley,  one  of  the  inspectors,  settled  the 
whole  thing.  It  proved  that  this  Dennis  Shea  was  a  harm- 
less, amiable  fellow,  of  the  class  known  as  shiftless,  who  had 
sealed  his  fate  by  marrying  a  dumb  wife,  who  was  at  that 


4  My  Double ;  and  how  he  undid  me. 

moment  ironing  in  the  laundry.  Before  I  left  Stafford,  I 
had  hired  both  for  five  years.  We  had  applied  to  Judge 
Pynchon,  then  the  probate  judge  at  Springfield,  to  change 
the  name  of  Dennis  Shea  to  Frederic  Ingham.  We  had 
explained  to  the  Judge,  what  was  the  precise  truth,  that  an 
eccentric  gentleman  wished  to  adopt  Dennis  under  this  new 
name  into  his  family.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  Dennis 
might  be  more  than  fourteen  years  old.  And  thus,  to 
shorten  this  preface,  when  we  returned  one  night  to  my  par- 
sonage at  Naguadavick,  there  entered  Mrs.  Ingham,  her 
new  dumb  laundress,  myself,  who  am  Mr.  Frederic  Ingham, 
and  my  double,  who  was  Mr.  Frederic  Ingham  by  as  good 
right  as  I. 

Oh,  the  fun  we  had  the  next  morning  in  shaving  his  beard 
to  my  pattern,  cutting  his  hair  to  match  mine,  and  teaching 
him  how  to  wear  and  how  to  take  off  gold-bowed  spectacles ! 
Really,  they  were  electro-plate  and  the  glass  was  plain  (for 
the  poor  fellow's  eyes  were  excellent).  Then  in  four  suc- 
cessive afternoons  I  taught  him  four  speeches.  I  had  found 
these  would  be  quite  enough  for  the  supernumerary-Sepoy 
line  of  life,  and  it  was  well  for  me  they  were.  For  though 
he  was  good-natured,  he  was  very  shiftless,  and  it  was,  as 
our  national  proverb  says,  "  like  pulling  teeth  "  to  teach  him. 
But  at  the  end  of  the  next  week  he  could  say,  with  quite  my 
easy  and  frisky  air,  — 

1.  "Very  well,  thank  you.    And  you  ?"    This  for  an  an- 
swer to  casual  salutations. 

2.  "  I  am  very  glad  you  liked  it." 

3.  "  There  has  been  so  much  said,  and,  on  the  whole,  so 
well  said,  that  I  will  not  occupy  the  time." 

4.  "  I  agree,  in  general,  with  my  friend  the  other  side  of 
the  room." 

At  first  I  had  a  feeling  that  I  was  going  to  be  at  great 
cost  for  clothing  him.  But  it  proved,  of  course,  at  once, 
that,  whenever  he  was  out,  I  should  be  at  home.  And  I 
went,  during  the  bright  period  of  his  success,  to  so  few  of 
those  awful  pageants  which  require  a  black  dress-coat  and 


My  Double ;  and  how  he  undid  me.  5 

what  the  ungodly  call,  after  Mr.  Dickens,  a  white  choker, 
that  in  the  happy  retreat  of  my  own  dressing-gowns  and 
jackets  my  days  went  by  as  happily  anfl  cheaply  as  those  of 
another  Thalaba.  And  Polly  declares  there  was  never  a 
year  when  the  tailoring  cost  so  little.  He  lived  (Dennis, 
not  Thalaba)  in  his  wife's  room  over  the  kitchen.  He  had 
orders  never  to  show  himself  at  that  window.  When  he 
appeared  in  the  front  of  the  house,  I  retired  to  my  sanctis- 
simum  and  my  dressing-gown.  In  short,  the  Dutchman 
and  his  wife,  in  the  old  weather-box,  had  not  less  to  do  with 
each  other  than  he  and  I.  He  made  the  furnace-fire  and 
split  the  wood  before  daylight ;  then  he  went  to  sleep  again, 
and  slept  late  ;  then  came  for  orders,  with  a  red  silk  ban- 
danna tied  round  his  head,  with  his  overalls  on,  and  his 
dress-coat  and  spectacles  off.  If  we  happened  to  be  inter- 
rupted, no  one  guessed  that  he  was  Frederic  Ingham  as  well 
as  I  ;  and,  in  the  neighborhood,  there  grew  up  an  impres- 
sion that  the  minister's  Irishman  worked  day-times  in  the 
factory-village  at  New  Coventry.  After  1  had  given  him 
his  orders,  I  never  saw  him  till  the  next  day. 

I  launched  him  by  sending  him  to  a  meeting  of  the  En- 
lightenment Board.  The  Enlightenment  Board  consists -of 
seventy-four  members,  of  whom  sixty-seven  are  necessary 
to  form  a  quorum.  One  becomes  a  member  under  the  reg- 
ulations laid  down  in  old  Judge  Dudley's  will.  I  became 
one  by  being  ordained  pastor  of  a  church  in  Naguadavick. 
You  see  you  cannot  help  yourself,  if  you  would.  At  this 
particular  time  we  had  had  four  successive  meetings,  aver- 
aging four  hours  each, —  wholly  occupied  in  whipping  in  a 
quorum.  At  the  first  only  eleven  men  were  present ;  at  the 
next,  by  force  of  three  circulars,  twenty-seven  ;  at  the  third, 
thanks  to  two  days'  canvassing  by  Auchmuty  and  myself, 
begging  men  to  come,  we  had  sixty.  Half  the  others  were 
in  Europe.  But  without  a  quorum  we  could  do  nothing. 
All  the  rest  of  us  waited  grimly  for  our  four  hours,  and  ad- 
journed without  any  action.  At  the  fourth  meeting  we  had 
flagged,  and  only  got  fifty-nine  together.  But  on  the  first 


6  My  Double ;  and  how  he  undid  me. 

appearance  of  my  double,  —  whom  I  sent  on  this  fatal  Mon- 
day to  the  fifth  meeting,  —  he  wa's  the  sixty-seventh  man 
who  entered  the  roo^m.  He  was  greeted  with  a  storm  of 
applause  !  The  poor  fellow  had  missed  his  way,  —  read  the 
street  signs  ill  through  his  spectacles,  (very  ill,  in  fact,  with- 
out them,)  —  and  had  not  dared  to  inquire.  He  entered 
the  room,  —  finding  the  president  and  secretary  holding  to 
their  chairs  two  judges  of  the  Supreme  Court,  who  were 
also  members  ex  officio,  and  were  begging  leave  to  go  away. 
On  his  entrance  all  was  changed.  Presto,  the  by-laws  were 
amended,  and  the  Western  property  was  given  away.  No- 
body stopped  to  converse  with  him.  He  voted,  as  I  had 
charged  him  to  do,  in  every  instance,  with  the  minority.  I 
won  new  laurels  as  a  man  of  sense,  though  a  little  unpunc- 
tual, — and  Dennis,  alias  Ingham,  returned  to  the  parsonage, 
astonished  to  see  with  how  little  wisdom  the  world  is  gov- 
erned. He  cut  a  few  of  my  parishioners  in  the  street ;  but 
he  had  his  glasses  off,  and  I  am  known  to  be  near-sighted. 
Eventually  he  recognized  them  more  readily  than  I. 

I  "set  him  again"  at  the  exhibition  of  the  New  Coventry 
Academy  ;  and  here  he  undertook  a  "  speaking  part,"  —  as, 
in  my  boyish,  worldly  days,  I  remember  the  bills  used  to  say 
of  Mile.  Celeste.  We  are  all  trustees  of  the  New  Coventry 
Academy  ;  and  there  has  lately  been  "  a  good  deal  of  feel- 
ing" because  the  Sandemanian  trustees  did  not  regularly 
attend  the  exhibitions.  It  has  been  intimated,  indeed,  that 
the  Sandemanians  are  leaning  towards  Free-Will,  and  that 
we  have,  therefore,  neglected  these  semiannual  exhibitions, 
while  there  is  no  doubt  that  Auchmuty  last  year  went  to 
Commencement  at  Waterville.  Now  the  head  master  at 
New  Coventry  is  a  real  good  fellow,  who  knows  a  Sanskrit 
root  when  he  sees  it,  and  often  cracks  etymologies  with  me, 
—  so  that,  in  strictness,  I  ought  to  go  to  their  exhibitions. 
But  think,  reader,  of  sitting  through  three  long  July  days  in 
that  Academy  chapel,  following  the  programme  from 

TUESDAY  MORNING.  English  Composition.  "  SUNSHINE." 
Miss  Jones. 


My  Double ;  and  how  he  undid  me.  7 

round  to 

Trio  on  Three  Pianos.     Duel  from  the  Opera  of  "  Midshipman 
Easy.*'    Marryatt. 

coming  in  at  nine,  Thursday  evening  !  Think  of  this,  reader, 
for  men  who  know  the  world  is  trying  to  go  backward,  and 
who  would  give  their  lives  if  they  could  help  it  on  !  Well ! 
The  double  had  succeeded  so  well  at  the  Board,  that  I  sent 
him  to  the  Academy.  (Shade  of  Plato,  pardon  !)  He  ar- 
rived early  on  Tuesday,  when,  indeed,  few  but  mothers  and 
clergymen  are  generally  expected,  and  returned  in  the  even- 
ing to  us,  covered  with  honors.  He  had  dined  at  the  right 
hand  of  the  chairman,  and  he  spoke  in  high  terms  of  the 
repast.  The  chairman  had  expressed  his  interest  in  the 
French  conversation.  "  I  am  very  glad  you  liked  it,"  said 
Dennis  ;  and  the  poor  chairman,  abashed,  supposed  the  ac- 
cent had  been  wrong.  At  the  end  of  the  day,  the  gentlemen 
present  had  been  called  upon  for  speeches,  —  the  Rev.  Fred- 
eric Ingham  first,  as  it  happened  ;  upon  which  Dennis  had 
risen,  and  had  said,  "  There  has  been  so  much  said,  and, 
on  the  whole,  so  well  said,  that  I  will  not  occupy  the  time." 
The  girls  were  delighted,  because  Dr.  Dabney,  the  year  be- 
fore, had  given  them  at  this  occasion  a  scolding  on  impro- 
priety of  behavior  at  lyceum  lectures.  They  all  declared 
Mr.  Ingham  was  a  love,  —  and  so  handsome  !  (Dennis  is 
good-looking.)  Three  of  them,  with  arms  behind  the  others' 
waists,  followed  him  up  to  the  wagon  he  rode  home  in  ;  and 
a  little  girl  with  a  blue  sash  had  been  sent  to  give  him  a 
rosebud.  After  this  cttbut  in  speaking,  he  went  to  the  ex- 
hibition for  two  days  more,  to  the  mutual  satisfaction  of  all 
concerned.  Indeed,  Polly  reported  that  he  had  pronounced 
the  trustees'  dinners  of  a  higher  grade  than  those  of  the  par- 
sonage. When  the  next  term  began,  I  found  six  of  the 
Academy  girls  had  obtained  permission  to  come  across  the 
river  and  attend  our  church.  But  this  arrangement  did  not 
long  continue. 
After  this  he  went  to  several  Commencements  for  me,  and 


8  My  Double ;  and  how  he  undid  me. 

ate  the  dinners  provided  ;  he  sat  through  three  of  our 
Quarterly  Conventions  for  me,  —  always  voting  judiciously, 
by  the  simple  rule  mentioned  above,  of  siding  with  the  mi- 
nority. And  I,  meanwhile,  who  had  before  been  losing 
caste  among  my  friends,  as  holding  myself  aloof  from  the 
associations  of  "  the  Body,"  began  to  rise  in  everybody's 
favor.  "Ingham's  a  good  fellow, — always  on  hand"; 
"  never  talks  much,  —  but  does  the  right  thing  at  the  right 
time  "  ;  "  is  not  as  unpunctual  as  he  used  to  be,  —  he  comes 
early,  and  sits  through  to  the  end."  "  He  has  got  over  his 
old  talkative  habit,  too.  I  spoke  to  a  friend  of  his  about  it 
once  ;  and  I  think  Ingham  took  it  kindly,"  etc.,  etc. 

This  voting  power  of  Dennis  was  particularly  valuable  at 
the  quarterly  meetings  of  the  Proprietors  of  the  Naguadavick 
Ferry.  My  wife  inherited  from  her  father  some  shares  in 
that  enterprise,  which  is  not  yet  fully  developed,  though  it 
doubtless  will  become  a  very  valuable  property.  The  law 
of  Maine  then  forbade  stockholders  to  appear  by  proxy  at 
such  meetings.  Polly  disliked  to  go,  not  being,  in  fact,  a 
"  hens'-rights  hen,"  and  transferred  her  stock  to  me.  I, 
after  going  once,  disliked  it  more  than  she.  But  Dennis 
went  to  the  next  meeting,  and  liked  it  very  much.  He  said 
the  arm-chairs  were  good,  the  collation  good,  and  the  free 
rides  to  stockholders  pleasant.  He  was  a  little  frightened 
when  they  first  took  him  upon  one  of  the  ferry-boats,  but 
after  two  or  three  quarterly  meetings  he  became  quite 
brave. 

Thus  far  I  never  had  any  difficulty  with  him.  Indeed, 
being  of  that  type  which  is  called  shiftless,  he  was  only  too 
happy  to  be  told  daily  what  to  do,  and  to  be  charged  not  to 
be  forthputting  or  in  any  way  original  in  his  discharge  of 
that  duty.  He  learned,  however,  to  discriminate  between 
the  lines  of  his  life,  and  very  much  preferred  these  stock- 
holders'  meetings  and  trustees'  dinners  and  Commencement 
collations  to  another  set  of  occasions,  from  which  he  used  to 
beg  off  most  piteously.  Our  excellent  brother,  Dr.  Fillmore, 
had  taken  a  notion  at  this  time  that  our  Sandemanian 


My  Double;  and  how  he  undid  me.  9 

churches  needed  more  expression  of  mutual  sympathy.  He 
insisted  upon  it  that  we  were  remiss.  He  said,  that,  if  the 
Bishop  came  to  preach  at  Naguadavick,  all  the  Episcopal 
clergy  of  the  neighborhood  were  present ;  if  Dr.  Pond 
came,  all  the  Congregational  clergymen  turned  out  to  hear 
him ;  if  Dr.  Nichols,  all  the  Unitarians  ;  and  he  thought 
we  owed  it  to  each  other,  that,  whenever  there  was  an  occa- 
sional service  at  a  Sandemanian  church,  the  other  brethren 
should  all,  if  possible,  attend.  "  It  looked  well,"  if  nothing 
more.  Now  this  really  meant  that  I  had  not  been  to  hear 
one  of  Dr.  Fillmore's  lectures  on  the  Ethnology  of  Religion. 
He  forgot  that  he  did  not  hear  one  of  my  course  on  the 
"  Sandemanianism  of  Anselm."  But  I  felt  badly  when  he 
said  it ;  and  afterwards  I  always  made  Dennis  go  to  hear 
all  the  brethren  preach,  when  I  was  not  preaching  myself. 
This  was  what  he  took  exceptions  to,  —  the  only  thing,  as  I 
said,  which  he  ever  did  except  to.  Now  came  the  advan- 
tage of  his  long  morning-nap,  and  of  the  green  tea  with 
which  Polly  supplied  the  kitchen.  But  he  would  plead,  so 
humbly,  to  be  let  off,  only  from  one  or  two  !  I  never  ex- 
cepted  him,  however.  I  knew  the  lectures  were  of  value, 
and  I  thought  it  best  he  should  be  able  to  keep  the  con- 
nection. 

Polly  is  more  rash  than  I  am,  as  the  reader  has  observed 
in  the  outset  of  this  memoir.  She  risked  Dennis  one  night 
under  the  eyes  of  her  own  sex.  Governor  Gorges  had  al- 
ways been  very  kind  to  us  ;  and  when  he  gave  his  great 
annual  party  to  the  town,  asked  us.  I  confess  I  hated  to 
go.  I  was  deep  in  the  new  volume  of  Pfeiffer's  "  Mystics," 
which  Haliburton  had  just  sent  me  from  Boston.  "  But 
how  rude,"  said  Polly,  "  not  to  return  the  Governor's  civility 
and  Mrs.  Gorges's,  when  they  will  be  sure  to  ask  why  you 
are  away  !  "  Still  I  demurred,  and  at  last  she,  with  the  wit 
of  Eve  and  of  Semiramis  conjoined,  let  me  off  by  saying, 
that,  if  I  would  go  in  with  her,  and  sustain  the  initial  con- 
versations with  the  Governor  and  the  ladies  staying  there, 
she  would  risk  Dennis  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  And 
i* 


io          My  Double ;  and  how  he  undid  me. 

that  was  just  what  we  did.  She  took  Dennis  in  training  all 
that  afternoon,  instructed  him  in  fashionable  conversation, 
cautioned  him  against  the  temptations  of  the  supper-table, 

—  and  at  nine  in  the  evening  he  drove  us  all  down  in  the 
carryall.     I  made  the  grand  star-<?/2/r<&  with  Polly  and  the 
pretty  Walton  girls,  who  were  staying  with  us.     We  had  put 
Dennis  into  a  great  rough  top-coat,  without  his  glasses,  — 
and  the  girls  never  dreamed,  in  the  darkness,  of  looking  at 
him.     He  sat  in  the  carriage,  at  the  door,  while  we  entered. 
I  did  the  agreeable  to  Mrs.  Gorges,  was  introduced  to  her 
niece,  Miss  Fernanda,  —  I  complimented  Judge  Jeffries  on 
his  decision  in  the  great  case  of  D'Aulnay  vs.  Laconia  Min- 
ing Co.,  —  I  stepped  into  the  dressing-room  for  a  moment, 

—  stepped  out  for  another,  —  walked  home,  after  a  nod  with 
Dennis,  and  tying  the  horse  to  a  pump;  —  and  while  I 
walked  home,  Mr.  Frederic  Ingham,  my  double,  stepped  in 
through  the  library  into  the  Gorges'  grand  saloon. 

Oh  !  Polly  died  of  laughing  as  she  told  me  of  it  at  mid- 
night !  And  even  here,  where  I  have  to  teach  my  hands  to 
hew  the  beech  for  stakes  to  fence  our  cave,  she  dies  of  laugh- 
ing as  she  recalls  it,  —  and  says  that  single  occasion  was 
worth  all  we  have  paid  for  it.  Gallant  Eve  that  she  is  ! 
She  joined  Dennis  at  the  library-door,  and  in  an  instant 
presented  him  to  Dr.  Ochterlony,  from  Baltimore,  who  was 
on  a  visit  in  town,  and  was  talking  with  her  as  Dennis  came 
in.  "  Mr.  Ingham  would  like  to  hear  what  you  were  telling 
us  about  your  success  among  the  German  population."  And 
Dennis  bowed  and  said,  in  spite  of  a  scowl  from  Polly,  "  I  'm 
very  glad  you  liked  it."  But  Dr.  Ochterlony  did  not  ob- 
serve, and  plunged  into  the  tide  of  explanation,  —  Dennis 
listening  like  a  prime-minister,  and  bowing  like  a  mandarin, 

—  which  is,  I  suppose,  the  same  thing.     Polly  declared  it 
was  just  like  Haliburton's  Latin  conversation  with  the  Hun- 
garian minister,  of  which  he  is  very  fond  of  telling.     "  Qucene 
sit  historia  Reformationis  in  Ungarid  ?  "  quoth  Haliburton, 
after  some  thought.     And  his  confrere  replied  gallantly,. 
"In  seculo  decimo  tertio?  etc.,  etc.,  etc. ;  and  from  decimo 


My  Double  ;  and  how  he  undid  me.          1 1 

tertio  *  to  the  nineteenth  century  and  a  half  lasted  till  the 
oysters  came.  So  was  it  that  before  Dr.  Ochterlony  came 
to  the  "  success,"  or  near  it,  Governor  Gorges  came  to  Den- 
nis and  asked  him  to  hand  Mrs.  Jeffries  down  to  supper,  a 
request  which  he  heard  with  great  joy. 

Polly  was  skipping  round  the  room,  I  guess,  gay  as  a  lark. 
Auchmuty  came  to  her  "  in  pity  for  poor  Ingham,"  who  was 
so  bored  by  the  stupid  pundit,  —  and  Auchmuty  could  not 
understand  why  I  stood  it  so  long.  But  when  Dennis  took 
Mrs.  Jeffries  down,  Polly  could  not  resist  standing  near 
them.  He  was  a  little  flustered,  till  the  sight  of  the  eatables 
and  drinkables  gave  him  the  same  Mercian  courage  which 
it  gave  Diggory.  A  little  excited  then,  he  attempted  one  or 
.  two  of  his  speeches  to  the  Judge's  lady.  But  little  he  knew 
how  hard  it  was  to  get  in  even  a  promptu  there  edgewise. 
"  Very  well,  I  thank  you,"  said  he,  after  the  eating  elements 
were  adjusted  ;  "  and  you  ? "  And  then  did  not  he  have  to 
hear  about  the  mumps,  and  the  measles,  and  arnica,  and 
belladonna,  and  chamomile-flower,  and  dodecatheon,  till  she 
changed  oysters  for  salad,  —  and  then  about  the  old  practice 
and  the  new,  and  what  her  sister  said,  and  what  her  sister's 
friend  said,  and  what  the  physician  to  her  sister's  friend  said, 
and  then  what  was  said  by  the  brother  of  the  sister  of  the 
physician  of  the  friend  of  her  sister,  exactly  as  if  it  had  been 
in  Ollendorff  ?  There  was  a  moment's  pause,  as  she  declined 
Champagne.  "  I  am  very  glad  you  liked  it,"  said  Dennis 
again,  which  he  never  should  have  said,  but  to  one  who 
complimented  a  sermon.  "  Oh  !  you  are  so  sharp,  Mr.  Ing- 
ham  !  No  !  I  never  drink  any  wine  at  all,  —  except  some- 
times in  summer  a  little  currant  spirits,  —  from  our  own 
currants,  you  know.  My  own  mother,  —  that  is,  I  call  her 
my  own  mother,  because,  you  know,  I  do  not  remember," 
etc.,  etc.,  etc. ;  till  they  came  to  the  candied  orange  at  the 
end  of  the  feast,  —  when  Dennis,  rather  confused,  thought 

*  Which  means,  "  In  the  thirteenth  century,"  my  dear  little  bell-and-coral 
reader.  You  have  rightly  guessed  that  the  question  means,  "What  is  the  his- 
tory of  the  Reformation  in  Hungary?  " 


12          My  Double;  and  how  he  undid  me. 

he  must  say  something,  and  tried  No.  4,  —  "I  agree,  in 
general,  with  my  friend  the  other  side  of  the  room,"  —  which 
he  never  should  have  said  but  at  a  public  meeting.  But 
Mrs.  Jeffries,  who  never  listens  expecting  to  understand, 
caught  him  up  instantly  with,  "  Well,  I  'm  sure  my  husband 
returns  the  compliment ;  he  always  agrees  with  you,  — 
though  we  do  worship  with  the  Methodists  ;  —  but  you 
know,  Mr.  Ingham,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  till  the  move  was  made 
up-stairs  ;  —  and  as  Dennis  led  her  through  the  hall,  he  was 
scarcely  understood  by  any  but  Polly,  as  he  said,  "  There 
has  been  so  much  said,  and,  on  the  whole,  so  well  said,  that 
I  will  not  occupy  the  time." 

His  great  resource  the  rest  of  the  evening  was,  standing 
in  the  library,  carrying  on  animated  conversations  with  one 
and  another  in  much  the  same  way.  Polly  had  initiated 
him  in  the  mysteries  of  a  discovery  of  mine,  that  it  is  not 
necessary  to  finish  your  sentences  in  a  crowd,  but  by  a  sort 
of  mumble,  omitting  sibilants  and  dentals.  This,  indeed, 
if  your  words  fail  you,  answers  even  in  public  extempore 
speech,  • —  but  better  where  other  talking  is  going  on.  Thus, 
—  "We  missed  you  at  the  Natural-History  Society,  Ing- 
ham."  Ingham  replies,  —  "I  am  very  gligloglum,  that  is, 
that  you  were  mmmmm."  By  gradually  dropping  the  voice, 
the  interlocutor  is  compelled  to  supply  the  answer.  "  Mrs. 
Ingham,  I  hope  your  friend  Augusta  is  better."  Augusta 
has  not  been  ill.  Polly  cannot  think  of  explaining,  however, 
and  answers,  —  "  Thank  you,  Ma'am  ;  she  is  very  rearason 
wewahwewoh,"  in  lower  and  lower  tones.  And  Mrs.  Throck- 
morton,  who  forgot  the  subject  of  which  she  spoke  as  soon 
as  she  asked  the  question,  is  quite  satisfied.  Dennis  could 
see  into  the  card-room,  and  came  to  Polly  to  ask  if  he  might 
not  go  and  play  all-fours.  But,  of  course,  she  sternly  re- 
fused. At  midnight  they  came  home  delighted.  Polly,  as 
I  said,  wild  to  tell  me  the  story  of  victory ;  only  both  the 
pretty  Walton  girls  said,  —  "  Cousin  Frederick,  you  did  not 
come  near  me  all  the  evening." 

We  always  called  him  Dennis  at  home,  for  convenience, 


My  Double;  and  how  he  undid  me.          1 3 

though  his  real  name  was  Frederic  Ingham,  as  I  have  ex- 
plained. When  the  election-day  came  round,  however,  I 
found  that  by  some  accident  there  was  only  one  Frederic 
Ingham's  name  on  the  voting-list ;  and,  as  I  was  quite 
busy  that  day  in  writing  some  foreign  letters  to  Halle,  I 
thought  I  would  forego  my  privilege  of  suffrage,,  and  stay 
quietly  at  home,  telling  Dennis  that  he  might  use  the  record 
on  the  voting-list  and  vote.  I  gave  him  a  ticket,  which  I 
told  him  he  might  use,  if  he  liked  to.  That  was  that  very 
sharp  election  in  Maine  which  the  readers  of  the  "  Atlantic  " 
so  well  remember,  and  it  had  been  intimated  in  public  that 
the  ministers  would  do  well  not  to  appear  at  the  polls.  Of 
course,  after  that,  we  had  to  appear  by  self  or  proxy.  Still, 
Naguadavick  was  not  then  a  city,  and  this  standing  in  a 
double  queue  at  town-meeting  several  hours  to  vote  was  a 
bore  of  the  first  water ;  and  so,  when  I  found  that  there  was 
but  one  Frederic  Ingham  on  the  list,  and  that  one  of  us  must 
give  up,  I  stayed  at  home  and  finished  the  letters,  (which,  in- 
deed, procured  for  Fothergill  his  coveted  appointment  of 
Professor  of  Astronomy  at  Leavenworth,)  and  I  gave  Den- 
nis, as  we  called  him,  the  chance.  Something  in  the  matter 
gave  a  good  deal  of  popularity  to  the  Frederic  Ingham 
name  ;  and  at  the  adjourned  election,  next  week,  Frederic 
Ingham  was  chosen  to  the  legislature.  Whether  this  was  I 
'  or  Dennis,  I  never  really  knew.  My  friends  seemed  to  think 
it  was  I  ;  but  I  felt,  that,  as  Dennis  had  done  the  popular 
thing,  he  was  entitled  to  the  honor  ;  so  I  sent  him  to  Au- 
gusta when  the  time  came,  and  he  took  the  oaths.  And  a 
very  valuable  member  he  made.  They  appointed  him  on 
the  Committee  on  Parishes  ;  but  I  wrote  a  letter  for  him, 
resigning,  on  the  ground  that  he  took  an  interest  in  our 
claim  to  the  stumpage  in  the  minister's  sixteenths  of  Gore 
A,  next  No.  7,  in  the  loth  Range.  He  never  made  any 
speeches,  and  always  voted  with  the  minority,  which  was 
what  he  was  sent  to  do.  He  made  me  and  himself  a  great 
many  good  friends,  some  of  whom  I  did  not  afterwards  rec- 
ognize as  quickly  as  Dennis  did  my  parishioners.  On  one 


14          My  Double ;  and  how  he  undid  me. 

or  two  occasions,  when  there  was  wood  to  saw  at  home,  I 
kept  him  at  home  ;  but  I  took  those  occasions  to  go  to  Au- 
gusta myself.  Finding  myself  often  in  his  vacant  seat  at 
these  times,  I  watched  the  proceedings  with  a  good  deal  of 
care ;  and  once  was  so  much  excited  that  I  delivered  my 
somewhat  celebrated  speech  on  the  Central  School-District 
question,  a  speech  of  which  the  "  State  of  Maine  "  printed 
some  extra  copies.  I  believe  there  is  no  formal  rule  permit- 
ting strangers  to  speak  ;  but  no  one  objected. 

Dennis  himself,  as  I  said,  never  spoke  at  all.  But  our 
experience  this  session  led  me  to  think,  that,  if,  by  some 
such  "  general  understanding "  as  the  reports  speak  of  in 
legislation  daily,  every  member  of  Congress  might  leave  a 
double  to  sit  through  those  deadly  sessions,  and  to  answer 
to  roll-calls  and  do  the  legitimate  party-voting,  which  ap- 
pears stereotyped  in  the  regular  list  of  Ashe,  Bocock,  Black, 
etc.,  we  should  gain  decidedly  in  working-power.  As  things 
stand,  the  saddest  state-prison  I  ever  visit  is  that  Repre- 
sentatives' Chamber  in  Washington.  If  a  man  leaves  for  an 
hour,  twenty  "  correspondents  "  may  be  howling,-  "  Where 
was  Mr.  Pendergrast  when  the  Oregon  bill  passed  ?  "  And 
if  poor  Pendergrast  stays  there  !  Certainly,  the  worst  use 
you  can  make  of  a  man  is  to  put  him  in  prison  ! 

I  know,  indeed,  that  public  men  of  the  highest  rank  have 
resorted  to  this  expedient  long  ago.  Dumas's  novel  of  the 
w  Iron  Mask"  turns  on  the  brutal  imprisonment  of  Louis  the 
Fourteenth's  double.  There  seems  little  -doubt,  in  our  own 
history,  that  it  was  the  real  General  Pierce  who  shed  tears 
when  the  delegate  from  Lawrence  explained  to  him  the  suf- 
ferings of  the  people  there,  —  and  only  General  Pierce's 
double  who  had  given  the  orders  for  the  assault  on  that 
town,  which  was  invaded  the  next  day.  My  charming 
friend,  George  Withers,  has,  I  am  almost  sure,  a  double, 
who  preaches  his  afternoon  sermons  for  him.  This  is  the 
reason  that  the  theology  often  varies  so  from  that  of  the 
forenoon.  But  that  double  is  almost  as  charming  as  the 
original.  Some  of  the  most  well-defined  men,  who  stand 


My  Double ;  and  how  he  undid  me.          15 

out  most  prominently  on  the  background  of  history,  are  in 
this  way  stereoscopic  men,  who  owe  their  distinct  relief  to 
the  slight  differences  between  the  doubles.  All  this  I  know. 
My  present  suggestion  is  simply  the  great  extension  of  the 
system,  so  that  all  public  machine-work  may  be  done  by  it 
But  I  see  I  loiter  on  my  story,  which  is  rushing  to  the 
plunge.  Let  me  stop  an  instant  more,  however,  to  recall, 
were  it  only  to  myself,  that  charming  year  while  all  was  yet 
well.  After  the  double  had  become  a  matter  of  course,  for 
nearly  twelve  months  before  he  undid  me,  what  a  year  it 
was  !  Full  of  active  life,  full  of  happy  love,  of  the  hardest 
work,  of  the  sweetest  sleep,  and  the  fulfilment  of  so  many 
of  the  fresh  aspirations  and  dreams  of  boyhood  !  Dennis 
went  to  every  school-committee  meeting,  and  sat  through 
all  those  late  wranglings  which  used  to  keep  me  up  till  mid- 
night and  awake  till  morning.  He  attended  all  the  lectures 
to  which  foreign  exiles  sent  me  tickets  begging  me  to  come 
for  the  love  of  Heaven  and  of  Bohemia.  He  accepted  and 
used  all  the  tickets  for  charity  concerts  which  were  sent  to 
me.  He  appeared  everywhere  where  it  was  specially  desir- 
able that  "our  denomination,"  or  "our  party,"  or  "our  class," 
or  "our  family,"  or  "our  street,"  or  "our  town,"  or  "our 
county,"  or  "  our  State,"  should  be  fully  represented.  And 
I  fell  back  to  that  charming  life  which  in  boyhood  one 
dreams  of,  when  he  supposes  he  shall  do  his  own  duty  and 
make  his  own  sacrifices,  without  being  tied  up  with  those  of 
other  people.  My  rusty  Sanskrit,  Arabic,  Hebrew,  Greek, 
Latin,  French,  Italian,  Spanish,  German,  and  English  began 
to  take  polish.  Heavens  !  how  little  I  had  done  with  them 
while  I  attended  to  my  public  duties  !  My  calls  on  my  pa- 
rishioners became  the  friendly,  frequent,  homelike  sociabili- 
ties they  were  meant  to  be,  instead  of  the  hard  work  of  a 
man  goaded  to  desperation  by  the  sight  of  his  lists  of  arrears. 
And  preaching  !  what  a  luxury,  preaching  was  when  I  had 
on  Sunday  the  whole  result  of  an  individual,  personal  week, 
from  which  to  speak  to  a  people  whom  all  that  week  I  had 
been  meeting  as  hand-to-hand  friend  !  I  never  tired  on 


1 6          My  Double ;  and  how  he  undid  me. 

Sunday,  and  I  was  in  condition  to  leave  the  sermon  at 
home,  if  I  chose,  and  preach  it  extempore,  as  all  men  should 
do  always.  Indeed,  I  wonder,  when  I  think  that  a  sensible 
people,  like  ours,  —  really  more  attached  to  their  clergy  than 
they  were  in  the  lost  days,  when  the  Mathers  and  Nortons 
were  noblemen,  —  should  choose  to  neutralize  so  much  of 
their  ministers'  lives,  and  destroy  so  much  of  their  early 
training,  by  this  undefined  passion  for  seeing  them  in  public. 
It  springs  from  our  balancing  of  sects.  If  a  spirited  Epis- 
copalian takes  an  interest  in  the  almshouse,  and  is  put  on 
the  Poor  Board,  every  other  denomination  must  have  a 
minister  there,  lest  the  poorhouse  be  changed  into  St. 
Paul's  Cathedral.  If  a  Sandemanian  is  chosen  president 
of  the  Young  Men's  Library,  there  must  be  a  Methodist  vice- 
president  and  a  Baptist  secretary.  And  if  a  Universalist 
Sunday-School  Convention  collects  five  hundred  delegates, 
the  next  Congregationalist  Sabbath-School  Conference  must 
be  as  large,  "  lest  '  they '  —  whoever  they  may  be  —  should 
think  *  we '  —  whoever  we  may  be  —  are  going  down." 

Freed  from  these  necessities,  that  happy  year,  I  began  to 
know  my  wife  by  sight.  We  saw  each  other  sometimes. 
In  those  long  mornings,  when  Dennis  was  in  the  study  ex- 
plaining to  map-pedlers  that  I  had  eleven  maps  of  Jerusa- 
lem already,  and  to  school-book  agents  that  I  would  see 
them  hanged  before  I  would  be  bribed  to  introduce  their 
text-books  into  the  schools,  —  she  and  I  were  at  work  to- 
gether, as  in  those  old  dreamy  days,  —  and  in  these  of  our 
log-cabin  again.  But  all  this  could  not  last,  —  and  at  length 
poor  Dennis,  my  double,  overtasked  in  turn,  undid  me. 

It  was  thus  it  happened.  There  is  an  excellent  fellow,  — 
once  a  minister,  —  I  will  call  him  Isaacs,  —  who  deserves 
well  of  the  world  till  he  dies,  and  after,  —  because  he  oncfe, 
in  a  real  exigency,  did  the  right  thing,  in  the  right  way,  at 
the  right  time,  as  no  other  man  could  do  it.  In  the  world's 
great  football  match,  the  ball  by  chance  found  him  loitering 
on  the  outside  of  the  field  ;  he  closed  with  it,  "  camped  "  it, 
charged  it  home,  —  yes,  right  through  the  other  side,  —  not 


My  Double;  and  how  he  undid  me.          1 7 

disturbed,  not  frightened  by  his  own  success,  —  and  breath- 
less found  himself  a  great  man,  —  as  the  Great  Delta. rang 
applause.  But  he  did  not  find  himself  a  rich  man  ;  and  the 
football  has  never  come  in  his  way  again.  From  that  mo- 
ment to  this  moment  he  has  been  of  no  use,  that  one  can 
see,  at  all.  Still,  for  that  great  act  we  speak  of  Isaacs 
gratefully  and  remember  him  kindly ;  and  he  forges  on, 
hoping  to  meet  the  football  somewhere  again.  In  that 
vague  hope,  he  had  arranged  a  "  movement "  for  a  general 
organization  of  the  human  family  into  Debating-Clubs, 
County  Societies,  State  Unions,  etc.,  etc.,  with  a  view  of  indu- 
cing all  children  to  take  hold  of  the  handles  of  their  knives 
and  forks,  instead  of  the  metal.  Children  have  bad  habits 
in  that  way.  The  movement,  of  course,  was  absurd  ;  but  we 
all  did  our  best  to  forward,  not  it,  but  him.  It  came  time 
for  the  annual  county-meeting  on  this  subject  to  be  held  at 
Naguadavick.  Isaacs  came  round,  good  fellow  !  to  arrange 
for  it,  —  got  the  town-hall,  got  the  Governor  to  preside,  (the 
saint !  —  he  ought  to  have  triplet  doubles  provided  him  by 
law,)  and  then  came  to  get  me  to  speak.  .  "  No,"  I  said,  "  I 
would  not  speak,  if  ten  Governors  presided.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve in  the  enterprise.  If  I  spoke,  it  should  be  to  say  chil- 
dren should  take  hold  of  the  prongs  of  the  forks  and  the 
blades  of  the  knives.  I  would  subscribe  ten  dollars,  but  I 
would  not  speak  a  mill."  So  poor  Isaacs  went  his  way, 
sadly,  to  coax  Auchmuty  to  speak,  and  Delafield.  I  went 
out.  Not  long  after,  he  came  back,  and  told  Polly  that  they 
had  promised  to  speak,  —  the  Governor  would  speak,  —  and 
he  himself  would  close  with  the  quarterly  report,  and  some 
interesting  anecdotes  regarding  Miss  Biffin's  way  of  hand- 
ling her  knife  and  Mr.  Nellis's  way  of  footing  his  fork. 
"  Now  if  Mr.  Ingham  will  only  come  and  sit  on  the  plat- 
form, he  need  not  say  one  word  ;  but  it  will  show  well  in 
the  paper,  —  it  will  show  that  the  Sandemanians  take  as 
much  interest  in  the  movement  as  the  Armenians  or  the 
Mesopotamians,  and  will  be  a  great  favor  to  me."  Polly, 
good  soul !  was  tempted,  and  she  promised.  She  knew 


1 8          My  Double ;  and  how  he  undid  me. 

Mrs.  Isaacs  was  starving,  and  the  babies,  —  she  knew  Den- 
nis was  at  home,  —  and  she  promised  !  Night  came,  and  I 
returned.  I  heard  her  story.  I  was  sorry.  I  doubted. 
But  Polly  had  promised  to  beg  me,  and  I  dared  all !  I  told 
Dennis  to  hold  his  peace,  under  all  circumstances,  and  sent 
him  down. 

It  was  not  half  an  hour  more  before  he  returned,  wild 
with  excitement,  —  in  a  perfect  Irish  fury,  —  which  it  was 
long  before  I  understood.  But  I  knew  at  once  that  he  had 
undone  me ! 

What  happened  was  this.  .The  audience  got  together, 
attracted  by  Governor  Gorges's  name.  There  were  a  thou- 
sand people.  Poor  Gorges  was  late  from  Augusta.  They 
became  impatient.  He  came  in  direct  from  the  train  at 
last,  really  ignorant  of  the  object  of  the  meeting.  He 
opened  it  in  the  fewest  possible  words,  and  said  other  gen- 
tlemen were  present  who  would  entertain  them  better  than 
he.  The  audience  were  disappointed,  but  waited.  The 
Governor,  prompted  by  Isaacs,  said,  "  The  Honorable  Mr. 
Delafield  will  address  you.  Delafield  had  forgotten  the 
knives  and  forks,  and  was  playing  the  Ruy  Lopez  opening 
at  the  chess-club.  "  The  Rev.  Mr.  Auchmuty  will  address 
you."  Auchmuty  had  promised  to  speak  late,  and  was  at 
the  school-committee.  "  I  see  Dr.  Stearns  in  the  hall ;  per- 
haps he  will  say  a  word."  Dr.  Stearns  said  he  had  come  to 
listen  and  not  to  speak.  The  Governor  and  Isaacs  whis- 
pered. The  Governor  looked  at  Dennis,  who  was  resplen- 
dent on  the  platform  ;  but  Isaacs,  to  give  him  his  due, 
shook  his  head.  But  the  look  was  enough.  A  miserable 
lad,  ill-bred,  who  had  once  been  in  Boston,  thought  it  would 
sound  well  to  call  for  me,  and  peeped  out,  "  Ingham  ! "  A 
few  more  wretches  cried,  "  Ingham  !  Ingham  !  "  Still 
Isaacs  was  firm ;  but  the  Governor,  anxious,  indeed,  to 
prevent  a  row,  knew  I  would  say  something,  and  said, 
"  Our  friend  Mr.  Ingham  is  always  prepared,  —  and  though 
we  had  not  relied  upon  him,  he  will  say  a  word,  perhaps." 
Applause  followed,  which  turned  Dennis's  head.  He  rose, 


My  Double ;  and  how  he  undid  me.          19 

fluttered,  and  tried  No.  3  :  "  There  has  been  so  much  said, 
and,  on  the  whole,  so  well  said,  that  I  will  not  longer  occupy 
the  time  !  "  and  sat  down,  looking  for  his  hat ;  for  things 
seemed  squally.  But  the  people  cried,  "  Go  on  !  go  on  !  " 
and  some  applauded.  Dennis,  still  confused,  but  flattered 
by  the  applause,  to  which  neither  he  nor  I  are  used,  rose 
again,  and  this  time  tried  No.  2  :  "I  am  very  glad  you 
liked  it ! "  in  a  sonorous,  clear  delivery.  My  best  friends 
stared.  All  the  people  who  did  not  know  me  personally 
yelled  with  delight  at  the  aspect  of  the  evening  ;  the  Gov- 
ernor was  beside  himself,  and  poor  Isaacs  thought  he  was 
undone  !  Alas,  it  was  I  !  A  boy  in  the  gallery  cried  in  a 
loud  tone,  "  It 's  all  an  infernal  humbug,"  just  as  Dennis, 
waving  his  hand,  commanded  silence,  and  tried  No.  4  :  "I 
agree,  in  general,  with  my  friend  the  other  side  of  the 
room."  The  poor  Governor  doubted  his  senses,  and  crossed 
to  stop  him,  —  not  in  time,  however.  The  .same  gallery-boy 
shouted,  "  How  's  your  mother  ?  "  —  and  Dennis,  now  com- 
pletely lost,  tried,  as  his  last  shot,  No.  i,  vainly :  "  Very 
well,  thank  you  ;  and  you  ?  " 

I  think  I  must  have  been  undone  already.  But  Dennis, 
like  another  Lockhard,  chose  "  to  make  sicker."  The  au- 
dience rose  in  a  whirl  of  amazement,  rage,  and  sorrow. 
Some  other  impertinence,  aimed  at  Dennis,  broke  all  re- 
straint, and,  in  pure  Irish,  he  delivered  himself  of  an  ad- 
dress to  the  gallery,  inviting  any  person  who  wished  to  fight 
to  come  down  and  do  so,  —  stating,  that  they  were  all  dogs 
and  cowards  and  the  sons  of  dogs  and  cowards,  —  that  he 
would  take  any  five  of  them  single-handed.  "  Shure,  I  have 
said  all  his  Riverence  and  the  Misthress  bade  me  say," 
cried  he,  in  defiance  ;  and,  seizing  the  Governor's  cane  from 
his  hand,  brandished  it,  quarter-staff  fashion,  above  his 
head.  He  was,  indeed,  got  from  the  hall  only  with  the 
greatest  difficulty  by  the  Governor,  the  City  Marshal,  who 
had  been  called  in,  and  the  Superintendent  of  my  Sunday- 
School. 

The  universal  impression,  of  course,  was,  that  the  Rev. 


2O          My  Double ;  and  how  he  undid  me. 

Frederic  Ingham  had  lost  all  command  of  himself  in  some 
of  those  haunts  of  intoxication  which  for  fifteen  years  I 
have  been  laboring  to  destroy.  Till  this  moment,  indeed, 
that  is  the  impression  in  Naguadavick.  This  number  of 
the  "Atlantic"  will  relieve  from  it  a  hundred  friends  of 
mine  who  have  been  sadly  wounded  by  that  notion  now  for 
years  ;  —  but  I  shall  not  be  likely  ever  to  show  my  head 
there  again. 

No  !    My  double  has  undone  me. 

We  left  town  at  seven  the  next  morning.  I  came  to  No. 
9,  in  the  Third  Range,  and  settled  on  the  Minister's  Lot. 
In  the  new  towns  in  Maine,  the  first  settled  minister  has  a 
gift  of  a  hundred  acres  of  land.  I  am  the  first  settled  min- 
ister in  No.  9.  My  wife  and  little  Paulina  are  my  parish. 
We  raise  corn  enough  to  live  on  in  summer.  We  kill  bear's 
meat  enough  to  carbonize  it  in  winter.  I  work  on  steadily 
on  my  "  Traces  of,  Sandemanianism  in  the  Sixth  and 
Seventh  Centuries,"  which  I  hope  to  publish  next  year. 
We  are  very  happy,  but  the  world  thinks  we  are  undone. 


THE    DIAMOND    LENS. 


THE  BENDING  OF  T-HEJTWIG. 

ROM  a  very  early  period  of  my  life  the  entire  bent 
of  my  inclinations  had  been  towards  microscopic 
investigations.  When  I  was  not  more  than  ten 
years  old,  a  distant  relative  of  our  family,  hoping  to  astonish 
my  inexperience,  constructed  a  simple  microscope  for  me, 
by  drilling  in  a  disk  of  copper  a  small  hole,  in  which  a  drop 
of  pure  water  was  sustained  by  capillary  attraction.  This 
very  primitive  apparatus,  magnifying  some  fifty  diameters, 
presented,  it  is  true,  only  indistinct  and  imperfect  forms,  but 
still  sufficiently  wonderful  to  work  up  my  imagination  to  a 
preternatural  state  of  excitement. 

Seeing  me  so  interested  in  this  rude  instrument,  my 
cousin  explained  to  me  all  that  he  knew  about  the  principles 
of  the  microscope,  related  to  me  a  few  of  the  wonders  which 
had  been  accomplished  through  its  agency,  and  ended  by 
promising  to  send  me  one  regularly  constructed,  immedi- 
ately on  his  return  to  the  city.  I  counted  the  days,  the 
hours,  the  minutes,  that  intervened  between  that  promise 
and  his  departure. 

Meantime  I  was  not  idle.  Every  transparent  substance 
that  bore  the  remotest  semblance  to  a  lens  I  eagerly  seized 
upon  and  employed  in  vain  attempts  to  realize  that  instru- 
ment, the  theory  of  whose  construction  I  as  yet  only  vaguely 


22  The  Diamond  Lens. 

comprehended.  All  panes  of  glass  containing  those  oblate 
spheroidal  knots  familiarly  known  as  "  bulPs  eyes"  were 
ruthlessly  destroyed,  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  lenses  of  mar- 
vellous power.  I  even  went  so  far  as  to  extract  the  crys- 
talline humor  from  the  eyes  of  fishes  and  animals,  and 
endeavored  to  press  it  into  the  microscopic  service.  I  plead 
guilty  to  having  stolen  the  glasses  from  my  Aunt  Agatha's 
•spectacles,  with  a  dim  idea  of  grinding  them  into  lenses  of 
wondrous  magnifying  properties,  —  in  which  attempt  it  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  I  totally  failed. 

At  last  the  promised  instrument  came.  It  was  of  that 
order  known  as  Field's  simple  microscope,  and  had  cost 
perhaps  about  fifteen  dollars.  As  far  as  educational  pur- 
poses went,  a  better  apparatus  could  not  have  been  selected. 
Accompanying  it  was  a  small  treatise  on  the  microscope,  — 
its  history,  uses,  and  discoveries.  I  comprehended  then  for 
the  first  time  the  "  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments."  The 
dull  veil  of  ordinary  existence  that  hung  across  the  world 
seemed  suddenly  to  roll  away,  and  to  lay  bare  a  land  of  en- 
chantments. I  felt  towards  my  companions  as  the  seer 
might  feel  towards  the  ordinary  masses  of  men.  I  held  con- 
versations with  Nature  in  a  tongue  which  they  could  not 
understand.  I  was  in  daily  communication  with  living 
wonders,  such  as  they  never  imagined  in  their  wildest  vis- 
ions. I  penetrated  beyond  the  external  portal  of  things, 
and  roamed  through  the  sanctuaries.  Where  they  beheld 
only  a  drop  of  rain  slowly  rolling  down  the  window-glass,  I 
saw  a  universe  of  beings  animated  with  all  the  passions 
common  to  physical  life,  and  convulsing  their  minute  sphere 
with  struggles  as  fierce  and  protracted  as  those  of  men.  In 
the  common  spots  of  mould,  which  my  mother,  good  house- 
keeper that  she  was,  fiercely  scooped  away  from  her  jam 
pots,  there  abode  for  me,  under  the  name  of  mildew,  en- 
chanted gardens,  filled  with  dells  and  avenues  of  the  densest 
foliage  and  most  astonishing  verdure,  while  from  the  fantas- 
tic boughs  of  these  microscopic  forests  hung  strange  fruits 
glittering  with  green  and  silver  and  gold. 


The  Diamond  Leits.  23 

It  was  no  scientific  thirst  that  at  this  time  filled  my  mind. 
It  was  the  pure  enjoyment  of  a  poet  to  whom  a  world  of  won- 
ders has  been  disclosed.  I  talked  of  my  solitary  pleasures 
to  none.  Alone  with  my  microscope,  I  dimmed  my  sight, 
day  after  day  and  night  after  night  poring  over  the  marvels 
wHich  it  unfolded  to  me.  I  was  like  one  who,  having  dis- 
covered the  ancient  Eden  still  existing  in  all  its  primitive 
glory,  should  resolve  to  enjoy  it  in  solitude,  and  never  be- 
tray to  mortal  the  secret  of  its  locality.  The  rod  of  my  life 
was  bent  at  this  moment.  I  destined  myself  to  be  a  micro- 
scopist. 

Of  course,  like  every  novice,  I  fancied  myself  a  discov- 
erer. I  was  ignorant  at  the  time  of  the  thousands  of  acute 
intellects  engaged  in  the  same  pursuit  as  myself,  and  with 
the  advantages  of  instruments  a  thousand  times  more  pow-. 
erful  than  mine.  The  names  of  Leeuwenhoek,  Williamson, 
Spencer,  Ehrenberg,  Schultz,  Dujardin,  Schact,  and  Schlei- 
den  were  then  entirely  unknown  to  me,  or  if  known,  I  was 
ignorant  of  their  patient  and  wonderful  researches.  In 
every  fresh  specimen  of  Cryptogamia  which  I  placed  be- 
neath my  instrument,  I  believed  that  I  discovered  wonders 
of  which  the  world  was  as  yet  ignorant.  I  remember  well 
the  thrill  of  delight  and  admiration  that  shot  through  me  the 
first  time  that  I  discovered  the  common  wheel  animalcule 
(Rotifera  mtlgaris)  expanding  and  contracting  its  flexible 
spokes,  and  seemingly  rotating  through  the  water.  Alas  ! 
as  I  grew  older,  and  obtained  some  works  treating  of  my 
favorite  study,  I  found  that  I  was  only  on  the  threshold  of 
a  science  to  the  investigation  of  which  some  of  the  greatest 
men  of  the  age  were  devoting  their  lives  and  intellects. 

As  I  grew  up,  my  parents,  who  saw  but  little  likelihood 
of  anything  practical  resulting- from  the  examination  of  bits 
of  moss  and  drops  of  water  through  a  brass  tube  and  a 
piece  of  glass,  were  anxious  that  I  should  choose  a  profes- 
sion. It  was  their  desire  that  I  should  enter  the  counting- 
house  of  my  uncle,  Ethan  Blake,  a  prosperous  merchant, 
who  carried  on  business  in  New  York.  This  suggestion  I, 


24  The  Diamond  Lens. 

decisively  combated.  I  had  no  taste  for  trade ;  I  should 
only  make  a  failure  ;  in  short,  I  refused  to  become  a  mer- 
chant. 

But  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  select  some  pursuit.  My 
parents  were  staid  New  England  people,  who  insisted  on 
the  necessity  of  labor  ;  and  therefore,  although,  thanks"  to 
the  bequest  of  my  poor  Aunt  Agatha,  I  should,  on  coming 
of  age,  inherit  a  small  fortune  sufficient  to  place  me  above 
want,  it  was  decided,  that,  instead  of  waiting  for  this,  I 
should  act  the  nobler  part,  and  employ  the  intervening  years 
in  rendering  myself  independent. 

After  much  cogitation  I  complied  with  the  wishes  of  my 
family,  and  selected  a  profession.  I  determined  to  study 
medicine  at  the  New  York  Academy.  This  disposition  of 
my  future  suited  me.  A  removal  from  my  relatives  would 
enable  me  to  dispose  of  my  time  as  I  pleased,  without  fear 
of  detection.  As  long  as  I  paid  my  Academy  fees,  I  might 
shirk  attending  the  lectures,  if  I  chose  ;  and  as  I  never  had 
the  remotest  intention  of  standing  an  examination,  there 
was  no  danger  of  my  being  "  plucked."  Besides,  a  metrop- 
olis was  the  place  for  me.  There  I  could  obtain  excellent 
instruments,  the  newest  publications,  intimacy  with  men  of 
pursuits  kindred  to  my  own,  —  in  short,  all  things  necessary 
to  insure  a  profitable  devotion  of.  my  life  to  my  beloved 
science.  I  had  an  abundance  of  money,  few  desires  that 
were  not  bounded  by  my  illuminating  mirror  on  one  side 
and  my  object-glass  on  the  other ;  what,  therefore,  was  to 
prevent  my  becoming  an  illustrious  investigator  of  the 
veiled  worlds  ?  It  was  with  the  most  buoyant  hopes  that  I 
left  my  New  England  home  and  established  myself  in  New 
York. 


The  Diamond  Lens.  25 

II. 

THE  LONGING  OF  A  MAN  OF  SCIENCE. 

MY  first  step,  of  course,  was  to  find  suitable  apart- 
ments. These  I  obtained,  after  a  couple  of  days' 
search,  in  Fourth  Avenue  ;  a  very  pretty  second-floor  unfur- 
nished, containing  sitting-room,  bedroom,  and  a  smaller 
apartment  which  I  intended  to  fit  up  as  a  laboratory.  I 
furnished  my  lodgings  simply,  but  rather  elegantly,  and 
then  devoted  all  my  energies  to  the  adornment  of  the  temple 
of  my  worship.  I  visited  Pike,  the  celebrated  optician,  and 
passed  in  review  his  splendid  collection  of  microscopes,  — 
Field's  Compound,  Higham's,  Spencer's,  Nachet's  Binocu- 
lar, (that  founded  on  the  principles  of  the  stereoscope,)  and 
at  length  fixed  upon  that  form  known  as  Spencer's  Trunnion 
Microscope,  as  combining  the  greatest  number  of  improve- 
ments with  an  almost  perfect  freedom  from  tremor.  Along 
with  this  I  purchased  every  possible  accessory,  —  draw- 
tubes,  micrometers,  a  camera-lucida,  lever-stage,  achromatic 
condensers,  white  cloud  illuminators,  prisms,  parabolic  con- 
densers, polarizing  apparatus,  forceps,  aquatic  boxes,  fish- 
ing-tubes, with  a  host  of  other  articles,  all  of  which  would 
have  been  useful  in  the  hands  of  an  experienced  microscop- 
ist,  but,  as  I  afterwards  discovered,  were  not  of  the  slightest 
present  value  to  me.  It  takes  years  of  practice  to  know 
how  to  use  a  complicated  microscope.  The  optician  looked 
suspiciously  at  me  as  I  made  these  wholesale  purchases. 
He  evidently  was  uncertain  whether  to  set  me  down  as 
some  scientific  celebrity  or  a  madman.  I  think  he  inclined 
to  the  latter  belief.  I  suppose  I  was  mad.  Every  great 
genius  is  mad  upon  the  subject  in  which  he  is  greatest. 
The  unsuccessful  madman  is  disgraced,  and  called  a  lu- 
natic. 

Mad  or  not,  I  set  myself  to  work  with  a  zeal  which  few 
scientific  students  have  ever  equalled.     I  had  everything  to 


26  The  Diamond  Lens. 

learn  relative  to  the  delicate  study  upon  which  I  had  em- 
barked, —  a  study  involving  the  most  earnest  patience,  the 
most  rigid  analytic  powers,  the  steadiest  hand,  the  most  un- 
tiring eye,  the  most  refined  and  subtile  manipulation. 

For  a  long  time  half  my  apparatus  lay  inactively  on  the 
shelves  of  my  laboratory,  which  was  now  most  amply  fur- 
nished with  every  possible  contrivance  for  facilitating  my 
investigations.  The  fact  was  that  I  did  not  know  how  to 
use  some  of  my  scientific  accessories,  —  never  having  been 
taught  microscopies,  —  and  those  whose  use  I  understood 
theoretically  were  of  little  avail,  until  by  practice  I  could 
attain  the  necessary  delicacy  of  handling.  Still,  such  was 
the  fury  of  my  ambition,  such  the  untiring  perseverance  of 
my  experiments,  that,  difficult  of  credit  as  it  may  be,  in  the 
course  of  one  year  I  became  theoretically  and  practically  an 
accomplished  microscopist. 

During  this  period  of  my  labors,  in  which  I  submitted 
specimens  of  every  substance  that  came  under  my  observa- 
tion to  the  action  of  my  lenses,  I  became  a  discoverer,  —  in 
a  small  way,  it  is  true,  for  I  was  very  young,  but  still  a  dis- 
coverer. It  was  I  who  destroyed  Ehrenberg's  theory  that 
the  Volvox  globator  was  an  animal,  and  proved  that  his 
"  monads  "  with  stomachs  and  eyes  were  merely  phases  of 
the  formation  of  a  vegetable  cell,  and  were,  when  they 
reached  their  mature  state,  incapable  of  the  act  of  conjuga- 
tion, or  any  true  generative  act,  without  which  no  organism 
rising  to  any  stage  of  life  higher  than  vegetable  can  be  said 
to  be  complete.  It  was  I  who  resolved  the  singular  prob- 
lem of  rotation  in  the  cells  and  hairs  of  plants  into  ciliary 
attraction,  in  spite  of  the  assertions  of  Mr.  Wenham  and 
others,  that  my  explanation  was  the  result  of  an  optical 
illusion. 

But  notwithstanding  these  discoveries,  laboriously  and 
painfully  made  as  they  were,  I  felt  horribly  dissatisfied.  At 
every  step  I  found  myself  stopped  by  the  imperfections  of 
my  instruments.  Like  all  active  microscopists,  I  gave  my 
imagination  full  play.  Indeed,  it  is  a  common  complaint 


The  Diamond  Lens.  27 

against  many  such,  that  they  supply  the  defects  of  their  in- 
struments with  the  creations  of  their  brains.  I  imagined 
depths  beyond  depths  in  Nature  which  the  limited  power 
of  my  lenses  prohibited  me  from  exploring.  I  lay  awake  at 
night  constructing  imaginary  microscopes  of  immeasurable 
power,  with  which  I  seemed  to  pierce  through  all  the  en- 
velopes 'of  matter  down  to  its  original  atom.  How  I  cursed 
those  imperfect  mediums  which  necessity  through  ignorance 
compelled  me  to  use  !  How  I  longed  to  discover  the  secret 
of  some  perfect  lens  whose  magnifying  power  should  be 
limited  only  by  the  resolvability  of  the  object,  and  which  at 
the  same  time  should  be  free  from  spherical  and  chromatic 
aberrations,  in  short  from  all  the  obstacles  over  which  the 
poor  microscopist  finds  himself  continually  stumbling  !  I 
felt  convinced  that  the  simple  microscope,  composed  of  a 
single  lens  of  such  vast  yet  perfect  power,  was  possible  of 
construction.  To  attempt  to  bring  the  compound  micro- 
scope up  to  such  a  pitch  would  have  been  commencing  at 
the  wrong  end  ;  this  latter  being  simply  a  partially  success- 
ful endeavor  to  remedy  those  very  defects  of  the  simple  in- 
strument, which,  if  conquered,  would  leave  nothing  to  be 
desired. 

It  was  in  this  mood  of  mind  that  I  became  a  constructive 
microscopist.  After  another  year  passed  in  this  new  pur- 
suit, experimenting  on  every  imaginable  substance,  —  glass, 
gems,  flints,  crystals,  artificial  crystals  formed  of  the  alloy 
of  various  vitreous  materials,  —  in  short,  having  constructed 
as  many  varieties  of  lenses  as  Argus  had  eyes,  I  found  my- 
self precisely  where  I  started,  with  nothing  gained  save  an 
extensive  knowledge  of  glass-making.  I  was  almost  dead 
with  despair.  My  parents  were  surprised  at  my  apparent 
want  of  progress  in  my  medical  studies,  (I  had  not  attended 
one  lecture  since  my  arrival  in  the  city,)  and  the  expenses 
of  my  mad  pursuit  had  been  so  great  as  to  embarrass  me 
very  seriously. 

I  was  in  this  frame  of  mind  one  day,  experimenting  in 
my  laboratory  on  a  small  diamond,  —  that  stone,  from  its 


28  The  Diamond  Lens. 

great  refracting  power,  having  always  occupied  my  attention 
more  than  any  other,  —  when  a  young  Frenchman,  who 
lived  on  the  floor  above  me,  and  who  was  in  the  habit  of  oc- 
casionally visiting  me,  entered  the  room. 

I  think  that  Jules  Simon  was  a  Jew.  He  had  many  traits 
of  the  Hebrew  character  :  a  love  of  jewelry,  of  dress,  and  of 
good  living.  There  was  something  mysterious  about  him. 
He  always  had  something  to  sell,  and  yet  went  into  excel- 
lent society.  When  I  say  sell,  I  should  perhaps  have  said 
peddle  ;  for  his  operations  were  generally  confined  to  the 
disposal  of  single  articles,  —  a  picture,  for  instance,  or  a 
rare  carving  in  ivory,  or  a  pair  of  duelling-pistols,  or  the 
dress  of  a  Mexican  caballero.  When  I  was  first  furnishing 
my  rooms,  he  paid  me  a  visit,  which  ended  in  my  purchas- 
ing an  antique  silver  lamp,  which  he  assured  me  was  a  Cel- 
lini, —  it  was  handsome  enough  even  for  that, — and  some 
other  knickknacks  for  my  sitting-room.  Why  Simon 
should  pursue  this  petty  trade  I  never  could  imagine.  He 
apparently  had  plenty  of  money,  and  had  the  entrte  of  the 
best  houses  in  the  city,  —  taking  care,  however,  I  suppose, 
to  drive  no  bargains  within  the  enchanted  circle  of  the 
Upper  Ten.  I  came  at  length  to  the  conclusion  that  this 
peddling  was  but  a  mask  to  cover  some  greater  object,  and 
even  went  so  far  as  to  believe  my  young  acquaintance  to  be 
implicated  in  the  slave-trade.  That,  however,  was  none  of 
my  affair. 

On  the  present  occasion,  Simon  entered  my  room  in  a 
state  of  considerable  excitement. 

"Ah!  mon  ami!'1'1  he  cried,  before  I  could  even  offer 
him  the  ordinary  salutation,  "  it  has  occurred  to  me  to  be 
the  witness  of  the  most  astonishing  things  in  the  world.  I 

promenade  myself  to  the  house  of  Madame .     How 

does  the  little  animal  —  le  renard —  name  himself  in  the 
Latin?" 

"  Vulpes,"  I  answered. 

"  Ah  !  yes,  —  Vulpes.  I  promenade  myself  to  the  house 
of  Madame  Vulpes." 


The  Diamond  Lens.  29 

"  The  spirit  medium  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  great  medium.  Great  Heavens  !  what  a  wo- 
man !  I  write  on  a  slip  of  paper  many  of  questions  con- 
cerning affairs  the  most  secret,  —  affairs  that  conceal 
themselves  in  the  abysses  of  my  heart  the  most  profound  ; 
and  behold  !  by  example  !  what  occurs  !  This  devil  of  a 
woman  makes  me  replies  the  most  truthful  to  all  of  them. 
She  talks  to  me  of  things  that  I  do  not  love  to  talk  of  to 
myself.  What  am  I  to  think  ?  I  am  fixed  to  the  earth ! " 

"  Am  I  to  understand  you,  M.  Simon,  that  this  Mrs. 
Vulpes  replied  to  questions  secretly  written  by  you,  which 
questions  related  to  events  known  only  to  yourself  ? " 

"  Ah  !  more  than  that,  more  than  that,"  he  answered, 
with  an  air  of  some  alarm.  "  She  related  to  me  things  — 
But,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  and  suddenly  changing  his 
manner,  "  why  occupy  ourselves  with  these  follies  ?  It  was 
all  the  Biology,  without  doubt.  It  goes  without  saying  that 
it  has  not  my  credence.  But  why  are  we  here,  mon  ami  ? 
It  has  occurred  to  me  to  discover  the  most  beautiful  thing 
as  you  can  imagine,  —  a  vase  with  green  lizards  on  it,  com- 
posed by  the  great  Bernard  Palissy.  It  is  in  my  apartment ; 
let  us  mount.  I  go  to  show  it  to  you." 

I  followed  Simon  mechanically ;  but  my  thoughts  were 
far  from  Palissy  and  his  enamelled  ware,  although  I,  like 
him,  was  seeking  in  the  dark  after  a  great  discovery.  This 
casual  mention  of  the  spiritualist,  Madame  Vulpes,  set  me 
on  a  new  track.  What  if  this  spiritualism  should  be  really 
a  great  fact  ?  What  if,  through  communication  with  sub- 
tiler  organisms  than  my  own,  I  could  reach,  at  a  single 
bound,  the  goal  which  perhaps  a  life  of  agonizing  mental 
toil  would  never  enable  me  to  attain  ? 

While  purchasing  the  Palissy  vase  from  my  friend  Simon, 
I  was  mentally  arranging  a  visit  to  Madame  Vulpes. 


30  The  Diamond  Lens. 

IIL 

*• 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  LEEUWENHOEK. 

TWO  evenings  after  this,  thanks  to  an  arrangement  by 
letter  and  the  promise  of  an  ample  fee,  I  found  Mad- 
ame Vulpes  awaiting  me  at  her  residence  alone.  She  was 
a  coarse-featur-ed  woman,  with  a  keen  and  rather  cruel  dark 
eye,  and  an  exceedingly  sensual  expression  about  her  mouth 
and  under  jaw.  She  received  me  in  perfect  silence,  in  an 
apartment  on  the  ground  floor,  very  sparely  furnished.  In 
the  centre  of  the  room,  close  to  where  Mrs.  Vulpes  sat, 
there  was  a  common  round  mahogany  table.  If  I  had 
come  for  the  purpose  of  sweeping  her  chimney,  the  woman 
could  not  have  looked  more  indifferent  to  my  appearance. 
There  was  no  attempt  to  inspire  the  visitor  with  any  awe. 
Everything  bore  a  simple  and  practical  aspect.  This  inter- 
course with  the  spiritual  world  was  evidently  as  familiar  an 
occupation  with  Mrs.  Vulpes  as  eating  her  dinner  or  riding 
in  an  omnibus. 

"  You  come  for  a  communication,  Mr.  Linley  ?  "  said  the 
medium,  in  a  dry,  business-like  tone  of  voice. 

"  By  appointment,  —  yes." 

"  What  sort  of  communication  do  you  want  ?  —  a  written 
one?" 

"  Yes,  —  I  wish  for  a  written  one." 

"  From  any  particular  spirit  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  ever  known  this  spirit  on  this  earth  ?  " 

"  Never.  He  died  long  before  I  was  born.  I  wish 
merely  to  obtain  from  him  some  information  which  he 
ought  to  be  able  to  give  better  than  any  other." 

"  Will  you  seat  yourself  at  the  table,  Mr.  Linley,"  said  the 
medium,  "-and  place  your  hands  upon  it  ?  " 

I  obeyed,  —  Mrs.  Vulpes  being  seated  opposite  me,  with 
her  hands  also  on  the  table.  We  remained  thus  for  about 


The  Diamond  Lens.  31 

a  minute  and  a  half,,  when  a  violent  succession  of  raps  came 
on  the  table,  on  the  back  of  my  chair,  on  the  floor  immedi- 
ately under  my  feet,  and  even  on  the  window-panes.  Mrs. 
Vulpes  smiled  composedly. 

"  They  are  very  strong  to-night,"  she  remarked.  "  You 
are  fortunate."  She  then  continued,  "  Will  the  spirits  com- 
municate with  this  gentleman  ?  " 

Vigorous  affirmative. 

"  Will  the  particular  spirit  he  desires  to  speak  with  com- 
municate ?  " 

A  very  confused  rapping  followed  this  question. 

"  I  know  what  they  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Vulpes,  addressing 
herself  to  me  ;  "  they  wish  you  to  write  down  the  name  of 
the  particular  spirit  that  you  desire  to  converse  with.  Is 
that  so  ?  "  she  added,  speaking  to  her  invisible  guests. 

That  it  was  so  was  evident  from  the  numerous  affirmatory 
responses.  While  this  was  going  on,  I  tore  a  slip  from  my 
pocket-book,  and  scribbled  a  name  under  the  table. 

"  Will  this  spirit  communicate  in  writing  with  this  gentle- 
man ? "  asked  the  medium  once  more. 

After  a  moment's  pause  her  hand  seemed  to  be  seized 
with  a  violent  tremor,  shaking  so  forcibly  that  the  table 
vibrated.  She  said  that  a  spirit  had  seized  her  hand  and 
would  write.  I  handed  her  some  sheets  of  paper  that  were 
on  the  table,  and  a  pencil  The  latter  she  held  loosely  in 
her  hand,  which  presently  began  to  move  over  the  paper 
with  a  singular  and  seemingly  involuntary  motion.  After  a 
few  moments  had  elapsed  she  handed  me  the  paper,  on 
which  I  found  written,  in  a  large,  uncultivated  hand,  the 
words,  "  He  is  not  here,  but  has  been  sent  for."  A  pause 
of  a  minute  or  so  now  ensued,  during  which  Mrs.  Vulpes 
remained  perfectly  silent,  but  the  raps  continued  at  regular 
intervals.  When  the  short  period  I  mention  had  elapsed, 
the  hand  of  the  medium  was  again  seized  with  its  convulsive 
tremor,  and  she  wrote,  under  this  strange  influence,  a  few 
words  on  the  paper,  which  she  handed  to  me.  They  were 
as  follows :  — 


32  The  Diamond  Lens. 

"  I  .am  here.     Question  me. 

"  LEEUWENHOEK." 

I  was  astounded.  The  name  was  identical  with  that  I 
had  written  beneath  the  table,  and  carefully  kept  concealed. 
Neither  was  it  at  all  probable  that  an  uncultivated  woman 
like  Mrs.  Vulpes  should  know  even  the  name  of  the  great 
father  of  microscopies.  It  may  have  been  Biology  ;  but  this 
theory  was  soon  doomed  to  be  destroyed.  I  wrote  on  my 
slip — still  concealing  it  from  Mrs.  Vulpes  —  a  series  of  ques- 
tions, which,  to  avoid  tediousness,  I  shall  place  with  the 
responses  in  the  order  in  which  they  occurred. 

I.  —  Can  the  microscope  be  brought  to  perfection  ? 

SPIRIT. — Yes. 

I.  — Am  I  destined  to  accomplish  this  great  task  ? 

SPIRIT.  — You  are. 

I.  —  I  wish  to  know  how  to  proceed  to  attain  this  end. 
For  the  love  which  you  bear  to  science,  help  me  ! 

SPIRIT.  —  A  diamond  of  one  hundred  and  forty  carats, 
submitted  to  electro-magnetic  currents  for  a  long  period,  will 
experience  a  rearrangement  of  its  atoms  inter  se,  and  from 
that  stone  you  will  form  the  universal  lens. 

I.  —  Will  great  discoveries  result  from  the  use  of  such  a 
lens? 

SPIRIT.  —  So  great,  that  all  that  has  gone  before  is  as 
nothing. 

I.  —  But  the  refractive  power  of  the  diamond  is  so  im- 
mense, that  the  image  will  be  formed  within  the  lens.  How 
is  that  difficulty  to  be  surmounted  ? 

SPIRIT.  —  Pierce  the  lens  through  its  axis,  and  the  diffi- 
culty is  obviated.  The  image  will  be  formed  in  the  pierced 
space,  which  will  itself  serve  as  a  tube  to  look  through. 
Now  I  am  called.  Good  night ! 

I  cannot  at  all  describe  the  effect  that  these  extraordinary 
communications  had  upon  me.  I  felt  completely  bewil- 
dered. No  biological  theory  could  account  for  the  discovery 
of  the  lens.  The  medium  might,  by  means  of  biological 
rapport  with  my  mind,  have  gone  so  far  as  to  read  my  ques- 


The  Diamond  Lens.  33 

tions,  and  reply  to  them  coherently.  But  Bioiogy  could  not 
enable  her  to  discover  that  magnetic  currents  would  so  alter 
the  crystals  of  the  diamond  as  to  remedy  its  previous  de- 
fects, and  admit  of  its  being  polished  into  a  perfect  lens. 
Some  such  theory  may  have  passed  through  my  head,  it  is 
true  ;  but  if  so,  I  had  forgotten  it.  In  my  excited  condition 
of  mind  there  was  no  course  left  but  to  become  a  convert, 
and  it  was  in  a  state  of  the  most  painful  nervous  exaltation 
that  I  left  the  medium's  house  that  evening.  She  accom- 
panied me  to  the  door,  hoping  that  I  was  satisfied.  The 
raps  followed  us  as  we  went  through  the  hall,  sounding  on 
the  balusters,  the  flooring,  and  even  the  lintels  of  the  door. 
I  hastily  expressed  my  satisfaction,  and  escaped  hurriedly 
into  the  cool  night  air.  I  walked  home  with  but  one  thought 
possessing  me,  —  how  to  obtain  a  diamond  of  the  immense 
size  required.  My  entire  means  multipled  a  hundred  times 
over  would  have  been  inadequate  to  its  purchase.  Besides, 
such  stones  are  rare,  and  become  historical.  I  could  find 
such  only  in  the  regalia  of  Eastern  or  European  monarchs. 


IV. 
THE  EYE  OF  MORNING. 

THERE  was  a  light  in  Simon's  room  as  I  entered  my 
house.  A  vague  impulse  urged  me  to  visit  him.  As 
I  opened  the  door  of  his  sitting-room,  unannounced,  he  was 
bending,  with  his  back  toward  me,  over  a  carcel  lamp,  ap- 
parently engaged  in  minutely  examining  some  object  which 
he  held  in  his  hands.  As  I  entered,  he  started  suddenly, 
thrust  his  hand  into  his  breast  pocket,  and  turned  to  me 
with  a  face  crimson  with  confusion. 

"  What ! "  I  cried,  "  poring  over  the  miniature  of  some 
fair  lady  ?  Well,  don't  blush  so  much ;  I  won't  ask  to 
see  it." 


34  The  Diamond  Lens. 

Simon  laughed  awkwardly  enough,  but  made  none  of  the 
negative  protestations  usual  on  such  occasions.  He  asked 
me  to  take  a  seat. 

"  Simon,"  said  I,  "  I  have  just  come  from  Madame 
Vulpes." 

This  time  Simon  turned  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and 
seemed  stupefied,  as  if  a  sudden  electric  shock  had  smit- 
ten him.  He  babbled  some  incoherent  words,  and  went 
hastily  to  a  small  closet  where  he  usually  kept  his  liquors. 
Although  astonished  at  his  emotion,  I  was  too  preoccupied 
with  my  own  idea  to  pay  much  attention  to  anything 
else. 

"  You  say  truly  when  you  call  Madame  Vulpes  a  devil  of 
a  wom'an,"  I  continued.  "  Simon,  she  told  me  wonderful 
things  to-night,  or  rather  was  the  means  of  telling  me  won- 
derful things.  Ah  !  if  I  could  only  get  a  diamond  that 
weighed  one  hundred  and  forty  carats  ! " 

Scarcely  had  the  sigh  with  which  I  uttered  this  desire 
died  upon  my  lips,  when  Simon,  with  the  aspect  of  a  wild 
beast,  glared  at  me  savagely,  and  rushing  to  the  mantel- 
piece, where  some  foreign  weapons  hung  on  the  wall, 
caught  up  a  Malay  creese,  and  brandished  it  furiously  be- 
fore him. 

"  No  ! "  he  cried  in  French,  into  which  he  always  broke 
when  excited,  "  No  !  you  shall  not  have  it !  You  are  per- 
fidious !  You  have  consulted  with  that  demon,  and  desire 
my  treasure  !  But  I  will  die  first !  Me  !  I  am  brave  !  You 
cannot  make  me  fear  !  " 

All  this,  uttered  in  a  loud  voice  trembling  with  excite- 
ment, astounded  me.  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  I  had  acci- 
dentally trodden  upon  the  edges  of  Simon's  secret,  whatever 
it  was.  It  was  necessary  to  reassure  him. 

"  My  dear  Simon,"  I  said,  "  I  am  entirely  at  a  loss  to 
know  what  you  mean.  I  went  to  Madame  Vulpes  to  con- 
sult with  her  on  a  scientific  problem,  to  the  solution  of 
which  I  discovered  that  a  diamond  of  the  size  I  just  men- 
tioned was  necessary.  You  were  never  alluded  to  during 


The  Diamond  Lens.  35 

the  evening,  nor,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  even  thought 
of.  What  can  be  the  meaning  of  this  outburst  ?  If  you  hap- 
pen to  have  a  set  of  valuable  diamonds  in  your  possession, 
you  need  fear  nothing  from  me.  The  diamond  which  I  re- 
quire you  could  not  possess  ;  or  if  you  did  possess  it,  you 
would  not  be  living  here." 

Something  in  my  tone  must  have  completely  reassured 
him  ;  for  his  expression  immediately  changed  to  a  sort  of 
constrained  merriment,  combined,  however,  with  a  certain 
suspicious  attention  to  my  movements.  He  laughed,  and 
said  that  I  must  bear  with  him  ;  that  he  was  at  certain  mo- 
ments subject  to  a  species  of  vertigo,  which  betrayed  itself 
in  incoherent  speeches,  and  that  the  attacks  passed  off  as 
rapidly  as  they  came.  He  put  his  weapon  aside  while  mak- 
ing this  explanation,  and  endeavored,  with  some  success,  to 
assume  a  more  cheerful  air. 

All  this  did  not  impose  on  me  in  the  least.  I  was  too 
much  accustomed  to  analytical  labors  to  be  baffled  by  so 
flimsy  a  veil.  I  determined  to  probe  the  mystery  to  the 
bottom. 

"  Simon,"  I  said,  gayly,  "  let  us  forget  all  this  over  a  bottle 
of  Burgundy.  I  have  a  case  of  Lausseure's  Clos  Vougeot 
down-stairs,  fragrant  with  the  odors  and  ruddy  with  the  sun- 
light of  the  Cote  d'Or.  Let  us  have  up  a  couple  of  bottles. 
What  say  you  ?  " 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  answered  Simon,  smilingly. 

I  produced  the  wine,  and  we  seated  ourselves  to  drink.  It 
was  of  a  famous  vintage,  that  of  1848,  a  year  when  war  and 
wine  throve  together,  —  and  its  pure,  but  powerful  juice 
seemed  to  impart  renewed  vitality  to  the  system.  By  the 
time  we  had  half  finished  the  second  bottle,  Simon's  head, 
which  I  knew  was  a  weak  one,  had  begun  to  yield,  while  I 
remained  calm  as  ever,  only  that  every  draught  seemed  to 
send  a  flush  of  vigor  through  my  limbs.  Simon's  utterance 
became  more  and  more  indistinct.  He  took  to  singing 
French  chansons  of  a  not  very  moral  tendency.  I  rose  sud- 
denly from  the  table  just  at  the  conclusion  of  one  of  those 


36  The  Diamond  Lens. 

incoherent  verses,  and,  fixing  my  eyes  on  him  with  a  quiet 
smile,  said : 

"  Simon,  I  have  deceived  you.  I  learned  your  secret  this 
evening.  You  may  as  well  be  frank  with  me.  Mrs.  Vulpes, 
or  rather  one  of  her  spirits,  told  me  all." 

He  started  with  horror.  His  intoxication  seemed  for  the 
moment  to  fade  away,  and  he  made  a  movement  towards 
the  weapon  that  he  had  a  short  time  before  laid  down.  I 
stopped  him  with  my  hand. 

"  Monster !  "  he  cried,  passionately,  "  I  am  ruined  !  What 
shall  I  do  ?  You  shall  never  have  it !  I  swear  by  my 
mother ! " 

"  I  don't  want  it,"  I  said  ;  "  rest  secure,  but  be  frank  with 
me.  Tell  me  all  about  it." 

The  drunkenness  began  to  return.  He  protested  with 
maudlin  earnestness  that  I  was  entirely  mistaken,  —  that  I 
was  intoxicated  ;  then  asked  me  to  swear  eternal  secrecy, 
and  promised  to  disclose  the  mystery  to  me.  I  pledged 
myself,  of  course,  to  all.  With  an  uneasy  look  in  his 
eyes,  and  hands  unsteady  with  drink  and  nervousness,  he 
drew  a  small  case  from  his  breast  and  opened  it.  Heavens  ! 
How  the  mild  lamp-light  was  shivered  into  a  thousand  pris- 
matic arrows,  as  it  fell  upon  a  vast  rose-diamond  that  glit- 
tered in  the  case  !  I  was  no  judge  of  diamonds,  but  I  saw 
at  a  glance  that  this  was  a  gem  of  rare  size  and  purity.  I 
looked  at  Simon  with  wonder,  and  —  must  I  confess  it  ?  — 
with  envy.  How  could  he  have  obtained  this  treasure  ?  In 
reply  to  my  questions,  I  could  just  gather  from  his  drunken 
statements  (of  which,  I  fancy,  half  the  incoherence  was  af- 
fected) that  he  had  been  superintending  a  gang  of  slaves 
engaged  in  diamond-washing  in  Brazil ;  that  he  had  seen 
one  of  them  secrete  a  diamond,  but,  instead  of  informing 
his  employers,  had  quietly  watched  the  negro  until  he  saw 
him  bury  his  treasure  ;  that  he  had  dug  it  up,  and  fled  with 
it,  but  that  as  yet  he  was  afraid  to  attempt  to  dispose  of  it 
publicly,  —  so  valuable  a  gem  being  almost  certain  to  attract 
too  much  attention  to  its  owner's  antecedents,  —  and  he  had 


The  Diamond  Lens.  37 

not  been  able  to  discover  any  of  those  obscure  channels  by 
which  such  matters  are  conveyed  away  safely.  He  added, 
that,  in  accordance  with  Oriental  practice,  he  had  named 
his  diamond  by  the  fanciful  title  of  "  The  Eye  of  Morning." 

While  Simon  was  relating  this  to  me,  I  regarded  the  great 
diamond  attentively.  Never  had  I  beheld  anything  so 
beautiful.  All  the  glories  of  light,  ever  imagined  or  de- 
scribed, seemed  to  pulsate  in  its  crystalline  chambers.  Its 
weight,  as  I  learned  from  Simon,  was  exactly  one  hundred 
and  forty  carats.  Here  was  an  amazing  coincidence.  The 
hand  of  Destiny  seemed  in  it.  On  the  very  evening  when 
the  spirit  of  Leeuwenhoek  communicates  to  me  the  great 
secret  of  the  microscope,  the  priceless  means  which  he  di- 
rects me  to  employ  start  up  within  my  easy  reach  !  I  deter- 
mined, with  the  most  perfect  deliberation,  to  possess  myself 
of  Simon's  diamond. 

I  sat  opposite  him  while  he  nodded  over  his  glass,  and 
calmly  revolved  the  whole  affair.  I  did  not  for  an  instant 
contemplate  so  foolish  an  act  as  a  common  theft,  which 
would  of  course  be  discovered,  or  at  least  necessitate  flight 
and  concealment,  all  of  which  must  interfere  with  my  scien- 
tific plans.  There  was  but  one  step  to  be  taken,  —  to  kill 
Simon.  After  all,  what  was  the  life  of  a  little  peddling  Jew, 
in  comparison  with  the  interests  of  science  ?  Human  beings 
are  taken  every  day  from  the  condemned  prisons  to  be  ex- 
perimented on  by  surgeons.  This  man,  Simon,  was  by  his 
own  confession,  a  criminal,  a  robber,  and  I  believed  on  my 
soul  a  murderer.  He  deserved  death  quite  as  much  as  any 
felon  condemned  by  the  laws  ;  why  should  I  not,  like  gov- 
ernment, contrive  that  his  punishment  should  contribute  to 
the  progress  of  human  knowledge  ? 

The  means  for  accomplishing  everything  I  desired  lay 
within  my  reach.  There  stood  upon  the  mantel-piece  a 
bottle  half  full  of  French  laudanum.  Simon  was  so  occu- 
pied with  his  diamond,  which  I  had  just  restored  to  him, 
that  it  .was  an  affair  of  no  difficulty  to  drug  .his  glass.  In  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  he  was  in  a  profound  sleep. 


38  The  Diamond  Lens. 

I  now  opened  his  waistcoat,  took  the  diamond  from  the 
inner  pocket  in  which  he  had  placed  it,  and  removed  him  to 
the  bed,  on  which  I  laid  him  so  that  his  feet  hung  down 
over  the  edge.  I  had  possessed  myself  of  the  Malay  creese, 
which  I  held  in  my  right  hand,  while  with  the  other  I  dis- 
covered, as  accurately  as  I  could  by  pulsation,  the  exact  lo- 
cality of  the  heart.  It  was  essential  that  all  the  aspects  of 
his  death  should  lead  to  the  surmise  of  self-murder.  I  cal- 
culated the  exact  angle  at  which  it  was  probable  that  the 
weapon,  if  levelled  by  Simon's  own  hand,  would  enter  his 
breast ;  then  with  one  powerful  blow  I  thrust  it  up  to  the 
hilt  in  the  very  spot  which  I  desired  to  penetrate.  A  con- 
vulsive thrill  ran  through  Simon's  limbs.  I  heard  a  smoth- 
ered sound  issue  from  his  throat,  precisely  like  the  bursting 
of  a  large  air-bubble,  sent  up  by  a  diver,  when  it  reaches 
the  surface  of  the  water  ;  he  turned  half  round  on  his  side, 
and,  as  if  to  assist  my  plans  more  effectually,  his  right  hand, 
moved  by  some  mere  spasmodic  impulse,  clasped  the  handle 
of  the  creese,  which  it  remained  holding  with  extraordinary 
muscular  tenacity.  Beyond  this  there  was  no  apparent 
struggle.  The  laudanum,  I  presume',  paralyzed  the  usual 
nervous  action.  He  must  have  died  instantaneously. 

There  was  yet  something  to  be  done.  To  make  it  certain 
that  all  suspicion  of  the  act  should  be  diverted  from  any  in- 
habitant of  the  house  to  Simon  himself,  it  was  necessary 
that  the  door  should  be  found  in  the  morning  locked  on  the 
inside.  How  to  do  this,  and  afterwards  escape  myself?  Not 
by  the  window  ;  that  was  a  physical  impossibility.  Besides, 
I  was  determined  that  the  windows  also  should  be  found 
bolted.  The  solution  was  simple  enough.  I  descended 
softly  to  my  own  room  for  a  peculiar  instrument  which  I 
had  used  for  holding  small  slippery  substances,  such  as 
minute  spheres  of  glass,  etc.  This  instrument  was  nothing 
more  than  a  long,  slender  hand-vice,  with  a  very  powerful 
grip,  and  a  considerable  leverage,  which  last  was  accident- 
ally owing  to  the  shape  of  the  handle.  Nothing  was  simpler 
than,  when  the  key  was  in  the  lock,  to  seize  the  end  of  its 


The  Diamond  Lens.  39 

stem  in  this  vice,  through  the  keyhole,  from  the  outside,  and 
so  lock  the  door.  Previously,  however,  to  doing  this,  I 
burned  a  number  of  papers  on  Simon's  hearth.  Suicides 
almost  always  burn  papers  before  they  destroy  themselves. 
I  also  emptied  some  more  laudanum  into  Simon's  glass,  — 
having  first  removed  from  it  all  traces  of  wine,  —  cleaned 
the  other  wine-glass,  and  brought  the  bottles  away  with  me. 
If  traces  of  two  persons  drinking  had  been  found  in  the 
room,  the  question  naturally  would  have  arisen,  Who  was 
the  second  ?  Besides,  the  wine-bottles  might  have  been 
identified  as  belonging  to  me.  The  laudanum  I  poured  out 
to  account  for  its  presence  in  his  stomach,  in  case  of  ^post- 
mortem examination.  The  theory  naturally  would  be,  that 
he  first  intended  to  poison  himself,  but,  after  swallowing  a 
little  of  the  drug,  was  either  disgusted  with  its  taste,  or 
changed  his  mind  from  other  motives,  and  chose  the  dag- 
ger. These  arrangements  made,  I  walked  out,  leaving  the 
gas  burning,  locked  the  door  with  my  vice,  and  went  to 
bed. 

Simon's  death  was  not  discovered  until  nearly  three  in 
the  afternoon.  The  servant,  astonished  at  seeing  the  gas 
burning,  —  the  light  streaming  on  the  dark  landing  from 
under  the  door,  —  peeped  through  the  keyhole  and  saw 
Simon  on  the  bed.  She  gave  the  alarm.  The  door  was 
burst  open,  and  the  neighborhood  was  in  a  fever  of  excite- 
ment. 

Every  one  in  the  house  was  arrested,  myself  included. 
There  was  an  inquest ;  but  no  clew  to  his  death,  beyond 
that  of  suicide,  could  be  obtained.  Curiously  enough,  he 
had  made  several  speeches  to  his  friends,  the  preceding 
week,  that  seemed  to  point  to  self-destruction.  One  gen- 
tleman swore  that  Simon  had  sai'd  in  his  presence  that  "  he 
was  tired  of  life."  His  landlord  affirmed  that  Simon,  when 
paying  him  his  last  month's  rent,  remarked  that  "  he  would 
not  pay  him  rent  much  longer."  All  the  other  evidence 
corresponded,  —  the  door  locked  inside,  the  position  of  the 
corpse,  the  burnt  papers.  As  I  anticipated,  no  one  knew  of 


40  The  Diamond  Lens. 

the  possession  of  the  diamond  by  Simon,  so  that  no  motive 
was  suggested  for  his  murder.  The  jury,  after  a  prolonged 
examination,  brought  in  the  usual  verdict,  and  the  neigh- 
borhood once  more  settled  down  into  its  accustomed  quiet. 


V. 

ANIMULA 

THE  three  months  succeeding  Simon's  catastrophe  I 
devoted  night  and  day  to  my  diamond  lens.  I  had 
constructed  a  vast  galvanic  battery,  composed  of  nearly  two 
thousand  pairs  of  plates,  —  a  higher  power  I  dared  not  use, 
lest  the  diamond  should  be  calcined.  By  means  of  this 
enormous  engine  I  was  enabled  to  send  a  powerful  current 
of  electricity  continually  through  my  great  diamond,  which 
it  seemed  to  me  gained  in  lustre  every  day.  At  the  expira- 
tion of  a  month  I  commenced  the  grinding  and  polishing 
of  the  lens,  a  work  of  intense  toil  and  exquisite  delicacy. 
The  great  density  of  the  stone,  and  the  care  required  to  be 
taken  with  the  curvatures  of  the  surfaces  of  the  lens,  ren- 
dered the  labor  the  severest  and  most  harassing  that  I  had 
yet  undergone. 

At  last  the  eventful  moment  came  ;  the  lens  was  com- 
pleted. I  stood  trembling  on  the  threshold  of  new  worlds. 
I  had  the  realization  of  Alexander's  famous  wish  before  me. 
The  lens  lay  on  the  table,  ready  to  be  placed  upon  its  plat- 
form* My  hand  fairly  shook  as  I  enveloped  a  drop  of  water 
with  a  thin  coating  of  oil  of  turpentine,  preparatory  to  its 
examination,  —  a  process  necessary  in  order  to  prevent  the 
rapid  evaporation  of  the  water.  I  now  placed  the  drop  on 
a  thin  slip  of  glass  under  the  lens,  and  throwing  upon  it,  by 
the  combined  aid  of  a  prism  and  a  mirror,  a  powerful  stream 
of  light,  I  approached  my  eye  to  the  minute  hole  drilled 
through  the  axis  of  the  lens.  For  an  instant  I  saw  nothing 


The  Diamond  Lens.  41 

save  what  seemed  to  be  an  illuminated  chaos,  a  vast  lumi- 
nous abyss.  A  pure"  white  light,  cloudless  and  serene,  an'd 
seemingly  limitless  as  space  itself,  was  my  first  impression. 
Gently,  and  with  the  greatest  care,  I  depressed  the  lens  a 
few  hairs'  breadths.  The  wondrous  illumination  still  con- 
tinued, but  as  the  lens  approached  the  object,  a  scene  of 
indescribable  beauty  was  unfolded  to  my  view. 

I  seemed  to  gaze  upon  a  vast  space,  the  limits  of  which 
extended  far  beyond  my  vision.  An  atmosphere  of  magical 
luminousness  permeated  the  entire  field  of  view.  I  was 
amazed  to  see  no  trace  of  animalculous  life.  Not  a  living 
thing,  apparently,  inhabited  that  dazzling  expanse.  I  com- 
prehended instantly,  that,  by  the  wondrous  power  of  my 
lens,  I  had  penetrated  beyond  the  grosser  particles  of  aque- 
ous matter,  beyond  the  realms  of  Infusoria  and  Protozoa, 
down  to  the  original  gaseous  globule,  into  whose  luminous 
interior  I  was  gazing,  as  into  an  almost  boundless  dome 
filled  with  a  supernatural  radiance. 

It  was,  however,  no  brilliant  void  into  which  I  looked. 
On  every  side  I  beheld  beautiful  inorganic  forms,  of  un- 
known texture,  and  colored  with  the  most  enchanting  hues. 
These  forms  presented  the  appearance  of  what  might  be 
called,  for  want  of  a  more  specific  definition,  foliated  clouds 
of  the  highest  rarity  ;  that  is,  they  undulated  and  broke  into 
vegetable  formations,  and  were  tinged  with  splendors  com- 
pared with  which  the  gilding  of  our  autumn  woodlands  is  as 
dross  compared  with  gold.  Far  away  into  the  illimitable 
distance  stretched 'long  avenues  of  these  gaseous  forests, 
dimly  transparent,  and  painted  with  prismatic  hues  of  un- 
imaginable brilliancy.  The  pendent  branches  waved  along 
the  fluid  glades  until  every  vista  seemed  to  break  through 
half-lucent  ranks  of  many-colored  drooping  silken  pennons. 
What  seemed  to  be  either  fruits  or  flowers,  pied  with  a 
thousand  hues  lustrous  and  ever  varying,  bubbled  from  the 
crowns  of  this  fairy  foliage.  No  hills,  no  lakes,  no  rivers, 
no  forms  animate  or  inanimate  were  to  be  seen,  save  those 
vast  auroral  copses  that  floated  serenely  in  the  luminous 


42  The  Diamond  Lens. 

stillness,  with  leaves  and  fruits  and  flowers  gleaming  with 
unknown  fires,  unrealizable .  by  mere  imagination. 

How  strange,  I  thought,  that  this  sphere  should  be  thus 
condemned  to  solitude  !  I  had  hoped,  at  least,  to  discover 
some  new  form  of  animal  life,  —  perhaps  of  a  lower  class 
than  any  with  which  we  are  at  present  acquainted,  —  but 
still,  some  living  organism.  I  find  my  newly  discovered 
world,  if  I  may  so  speak,  a  beautiful  chromatic  desert. 

While  I  was  speculating  on  the  singular  arrangements  of 
the  internal  economy  of  Nature,  with  which  she  so  fre- 
quently splinters  into  atoms  our  most  compact  theories,  I 
thought  I  beheld  a  form  moving  slowly  through  the  glades 
of  one  of  the  prismatic  forests.  I  looked  more  attentively, 
and  found  that  I  was  not  mistaken.  Words  cannot  depict 
the  anxiety  with  which  I  awaited  the  nearer  approach  of  this 
mysterious  object.  Was  it  merely  some  inanimate  sub- 
stance, held  in  suspense  in  the  attenuated  atmosphere  of  the 
globule  ?  or  was  it  an  animal  endowed  with  vitality  and  mo- 
tion ?  It  approached,  flitting  behind  the  gauzy,  colored  veils 
of  cloud-foliage,  for  seconds  dimly  revealed,  then  vanishing. 
At  last  the  violet  pennons  that  trailed  nearest  to  me  vibrat- 
ed ;  they  were  gently  pushed  aside,  and  the  Form  floated 
out  into  the  broad  light. 

It  was  a  female  human  shape.  When  I  say  "  human,"  I 
mean  it  possessed  the  outlines  of  humanity,  —  but  there 
the  analogy  ends.  Its  adorable  beauty  lifted  it  illimitable 
heights  beyond  the  loveliest  daughter  of  Adam. 

I  cannot,  I  dare  not,  attempt  to  inventory  the  charms  of 
this  divine  revelation  of  perfect  beauty.  Those  eyes  of 
mystic  violet,  dewy  and  serene,  evade  my  words.  Her  long 
lustrous  hair  following  her  glorious  head  in  a  golden  wake, 
like  the  track  sown  in  heaven  by  a  falling  star,  seems  to 
quench  my  most  burning  phrases  with  its  splendors.  If  all 
the  bees  of  Hybla  nestled  upon  my  lips,  they  would  still 
sing  but  hoarsely  the  wondrous  harmonies  of  outline  that 
enclosed  her  form. 

She  swept  out  from  between  the  rainbow-curtains  of  the 


The  Diamond  Lens.  43 

cloud-trees  into  the  broad  sea  of  light  that  lay  beyond.  Her 
motions  were  those  of  some  graceful  Naiad,  cleaving,  by  a 
mere  effort  of  her  will,  the  clear,  unruffled  waters  that  fill 
the  chambers  of  the  sea.  She  floated  forth  with  the  serene 
grace  of  a  frail  bubble  ascending  through  the  still  atmos- 
phere of  a  June  day.  .The  perfect  roundness  of  her  limbs 
formed  suave  and  enchanting  curves.  It  was  like  listening 
to  the  most  spiritual  symphony  of  Beethoven  the  divine,  to 
watch  the  harmonious  flow  of  lines.  This,  indeed,  was  a 
pleasure  cheaply  purchased  at  any  price.  What  cared  I,  if 
I  had  waded  to  the  portal  of  this  wonder  through  another's 
blood  ?  I  would  have  given  my  own  to  enjoy  one  such  mo- 
ment of  intoxication  and  delight. 

Breathless  with  gazing  on  this  lovely  wonder,  and  forget- 
ful for  an  instant  of  everything  save  her  presence,  I  with- 
drew my  eye  from  the  microscope  eagerly,  —  alas  !  As  my 
gaze  fell  on  the  thin  slide  that  lay  beneath  my  instrument, 
the  bright  light  from  mirror  and  from  prism  sparkled  on  a 
colorless  drop  of  water  !  There,  in  that  tiny  bead  of  dew, 
this  beautiful  being  was  forever  imprisoned.  The  planet 
Neptune  was  not  more  distant  from  me  than  she.  •  I  hastened 
once  more  to  apply  my  eye  to  the  microscope. 

Animula  (let  me  now  call  her  by  that  dear  name  which  I 
subsequently  bestowed  on  her)  had  changed  her  position. 
She  had  again  approached  the  wondrous  forest,  and  was 
gazing  earnestly  upwards.  Presently  one  of  the  trees  —  as 
I  must  call  them  —  unfolded  a  long  ciliary  process,  with 
which  it  seized  one  of  the  gleaming  fruits  that  glittered  on 
its  summit,  and  sweeping  slowly  down,  held  it  within  reach 
of  Animula.  The  sylph  took  it  in  her  delicate  hand,  and 
began  to  eat.  My  attention  was  so  entirely  absorbed  by 
her,  that  I  could  not  apply  myself  to  the  task  of  determining 
whether  this  singular  plant  was  or  was  not  instinct  with 
volition. 

I  watched  her,  as  she  made  her  repast,  with  the  most  pro- 
found attention.  The  suppleness  of  her  motions  sent  a  thrill 
of  delight  through  my  frame  ;  mv  heart  beat  madly  as  she 


44  The  Diamond  Lens. 

turned  her  beautiful  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  spot  in 
which  I  stood.  What  would  I  not  have  given  to  have  had 
the  power  to  precipitate  myself  into  that  luminous  ocean, 
and  float  with  her  through  those  groves-of  purple  and  gold  ! 
While  I  was  thus  breathlessly  following  her  every  move- 
ment, she  suddenly  started,  seemed  to  listen  for  a  moment, 
and  then  cleaving  the  brilliant  ether  in  which  she  was  float- 
ing, like  a  flash  of  light,  pierced  through  the  opaline  forest, 
and  disappeared. 

Instantly  a  series  of  the  most  singular  sensations  attacked 
me.  It  seemed  as  if  I  had  suddenly  gone  blind.  The 
luminous  sphere  was  still  before  me,  but  my  daylight  had 
vanished.  What  caused  this  sudden  disappearance  ?  -  Had 
she  a  lover,  or  a  husband  ?  Yes,  that  was  the  solution  ! 
Some  signal  from  a  happy  fellow-being  had  vibrated 
through  the  avenues  of  the  forest,  and  she  had  obeyed  the 
summons. 

The  agony  of  my  sensations,  as  I  arrived  at  this  conclu- 
sion, startled  me.  I  tried  to  reject  the  conviction  that  my 
reason  forced  upon  me.  I  battled  against  the  fatal  conclu- 
sion, —  but'in  vain.  It  was  so.  I  had  no  escape  from  it. 
I  loved  an  animalcule  ! 

It  is  tRie,  that,  thanks  to  the  marvellous  power  of  my  mi- 
croscope, she  appeared  of  human  proportions.  Instead  of 
presenting. the  revolting  aspect  of  the  coarser  creatures,  that 
live  and  struggle  and  die,  in  the  more  easily  resolvable  por- 
tions of  the  water-drop,  she  was  fair  and  delicate  and  of 
surpassing  beauty.  But  of  what  account  was  all  that  ? 
Every  time  that  my  eye  was  withdrawn  from  the  instru- 
ment, it  fell  on  a  miserable  drop  of  water,  within  which,  I 
must  be  content  to  know,  dwelt  all  that  could  make  my  life 
lovely. 

Cottld  she  but  see  me  once !  Could  I  for  one  moment 
pierce  the  mystical  walls  that  so  inexorably  rose  to  separate 
us,  and  whisper  all  that  filled  my  soul,  I  might  consent  to 
be  satisfied  for  the  rest  of  my  life  with  the  knowledge  of  her 
remote  sympathy.  It  would  be  something  to  have  estab- 


The  Diamond  Lens.  45 

lished  even  the  faintest  personal  link  to  bind  us  together,  — 
to  know  that  at  times,  when  roaming  through  those  en- 
chanted glades,  she  might  think  of  the  wonderful  stranger, 
who  had  broken  the  monotony  of  her  life  with  his  presence, 
and  left  a  gentle  memory  in  her  heart ! 

But  it  could  not  be.  No  invention,  of  which  human  in- 
tellect was  capable,  could  break  down  the  barriers  that  Na- 
ture had  erected.  I  might  feast  my  soul  upon  her  wondrous 
beauty,  yet  she  must  always  remain  ignorant  of  the  adoring 
eyes  that  day  and  night  gazed  upon  her,  and,  even  when 
closed,  beheld  her  in  dreams.  With  a  bitter  cry  of  anguish 
I  fled  from  the  room,  and  flinging  myself  on  my  bed,  sobbed 
myself  to  sleep  like  a  child. 


VI. 

SPITT.Tiyi  OF  TTTF.  PTTP 

I  AROSE  the  next  morning  almost  at  daybreak,  and 
rushed  to  my  microscope.  I  trembled  as  I  sought  the 
luminous  world  in  miniature  that  contained  my  all.  Ani- 
mula  was  there.  I  had  left  the  gas-lamp,  surrounded  by  its 
moderators,  burning,  when  I  went  to  bed  the  night  before. 
I  found  the  sylph  bathing,  as  it  were,  with  an  expression  of 
pleasure  animating  her  features,  in  the  brilliant  light  which 
surrounded  her.  She  tossed  her  lustrous  golden  hair  over  her 
shoulders  with  innocent  coquetry.  She  lay  at  full  length  in 
the  transparent  medium,  in  which  she  supported  herself 
with  ease,  and  gambolled  with  the  enchanting  grace  that 
the  Nymph  Salmacis  might  have  exhibited  when  she  sought 
to  conquer  the  modest  Hermaphroditus.  I  tried  an  experi- 
ment to  satisfy  myself  if  her  powers  of  reflection  were  de- 
veloped. I  lessened  the  lamp-light  considerably.  By  the 
dim  light  that  remained,  I  could  see  an  expression  of  pain 
flit  across  her  face.  She  looked  upward  suddenly,  and  her 


46  The  Diamond  Lens. 

brows  contracted.  I  flooded  the  stage  of  the  microscope 
again  with  a  full  stream  of  light,  and  her  whole  expression 
changed.  She  sprang  forward  like  some  substance  deprived 
of  all  weight.  Her  eyes  sparkled,  and  her  lips  moved.  Ah  ! 
if  science  had  only  the  means  of  conducting  and  redupli- 
cating sounds,  as  it  does  the  rays  of  light,  what  carols  of 
happiness  would  then  have  entranced  my  ears  !  what  jubi- 
lant hymns  to  Adonais  would  have  thrilled  the  illumined 
air! 

I  now  comprehended  how  it  was  that  the  Count  de  Gaba- 
lis  peopled  his  mystic  world  with  sylphs,  —  beautiful  beings 
whose  breath  of  life  was  lambent  fire,  and  who  sported  for- 
ever in  regions  of  purest  ether  and  purest  light.  The  Ro- 
sicrucian  had  anticipated  the  wonder  that  I  had  practically 
realized. 

How  long  this  worship  of  my  strange  divinity  went  on 
thus  I  scarcely  know.  I  lost  all  note  of  time.  All  day  from 
early  dawn,  and  far  into  the  night,  I  was  to  be  found  peer- 
ing through  that  wonderful  lens.  I  saw  no  one,  went  no- 
where, and  scarce  allowed  myself  sufficient  time  for  my 
meals.  My  whole  life  was  absorbed  in  contemplation  as 
rapt  as  that  of  any  of  the  Romish  saints.  Every  hour  that 
I  gazed  upon^the  divine  form  strengthened  my  passion,  —  a 
passion  that  was  always  overshadowed  by  the  maddening 
conviction,  that,  although  I  could  gaze  on  her  at  will,  she 
never,  never  could  behold  me  ! 

At  length  I  grew  so  pale  and  emaciated,  from  want  of 
rest,  and  continual  brooding  over  my  insane  love  and  its 
cruel  conditions,  that  I  determined  to  make  some  effort  to 
wean  myself  from  it.  "  Come,"  I  said,  "  this  is  at  best  but 
a  fantasy.  Your  imagination  has  bestowed  on  Animula 
charms  which  in  reality  she  does  not  possess.  Seclusion 
Jfrom  female  society  has  produced  this  morbid  condition  of 
mind.  Compare  her  with  the  beautiful  women  of  your  own 
world,  and  this  false  enchantment  will  vanish." 

I  looked  over  the  newspapers  by  chance.  There  I  be- 
held the  advertisement  of  a  celebrated  danseuse  who  ap- 


The  Diamond  Lens.  47 

peared  nightly  at  Niblo's.  The  Signorina  Caradolce  had 
the  reputation  of  being  the  most  beautiful  as  well  as  the 
most  graceful  woman  in  the  world.  I  instantly  dressed  and 
went  to  the  theatre. 

The  curtain  drew  up.  The  usual  semicircle  of  fairies  in 
white  muslin  were  standing  on  the  right  toe  around  the  en- 
amelled flower-bank,  of  green  canvas,  on  which  the  belated 
prince  was  sleeping.  Suddenly  a  flute  is  heard.  The  fai- 
ries start.  The  trees  open,  the  fairies  all  stand  on  the  left 
toe,  and  the  queen  enters.  It  was  the  Signorina.  She 
bounded  forward  amid  thunders  of  applause,  and  lighting 
on  one  foot  remained  poised  in  air.  Heavens  !' was  this 
the  great  enchantress  that  had  drawn  monarchs  at  her 
chariot-wheels  ?  Those  heavy  muscular  limbs,  those  thick 
ankles,  those  cavernous  eyes,  that  stereotyped  smile,  those 
crudely  painted  cheeks  !  Where  were  the  vermeil  blooms, 
the  liquid  expressive  eyes,  the  harmonious  limbs  of  Ani- 
mula  ? 

The  Signorina  danced.  What  gross,  discordant  move- 
ments !  The  play  of  her  limbs  was  all  false  and  artificial. 
Her  bounds  were  painful  athletic  efforts  ;  her  poses  were 
angular  and  distressed  the  eye.  I  could  bear  it  no  longer  ; 
with  an  exclamation  of  disgust  that  drew  every  eye  upon 
me,  I  rose  from  my  seat  in  the  very  middle  of  the  Signo- 
rina's  pas-de-fascination,  and  abruptly  quitted  the  house. 

I  hastened  home  to  feast  my  eyes-  once  more  on  the 
lovely  form  of  my  sylph.  I  felt  that  henceforth  to  combat 
this  passion  would  be  impossible.  I  applied  my  eye  to  the 
lens.  Animula  was  there,  —  but  what  could  have  hap- 
pened ?  Some  terrible  change  seemed  to  have  taken  place 
during  my  absence.  Some  secret  grief  seemed  to  cloud  the 
lovely  features  of  her  I  gazed  upon.  Her  face  had  grown 
thin  and  haggard  ;  her  limbs  trailed  heavily  ;  the  wondrous 
lustre  of  her  golden  hair  had  faded.  She  was  ill !  —  ill,  and 
I  could  not  assist  her  !  I  believe  at  that  moment  I  would 
have  gladly  forfeited  all  claims  to  my  human  birthright,  if  I 
could  only  have  been  dwarfed  to  the  size  of  an  animalcule, 


48  The  Diamond  Lens. 

and  permitted  to  -console  her  from  whom  fate  had  forever 
divided  me. 

I  racked  my  brain  for  the  solution  of  this  mystery.  What 
was  it  that  afflicted  the  sylph  ?  She  seemed  to  suffer  in- 
tense pain.  Her  features  contracted,  and  she  even  writhed, 
as  if  with  some  internal  agony.  The  wondrous  forests  ap- 
peared also  to  have  lost  half  their  beauty.  Their  hues  were 
dim,  and  in  some  places  faded  away  altogether.  I  watched 
Animula  for  hours  with  a  breaking  heart,  and  she  seemed 
absolutely  to  wither  away  under  my  very  eye.  Suddenly  I 
remembered  that  I  had  not  looked  at  the  water-drop  for 
several  days.  In  fact,  I  hated  to  see  it ;  for  it  reminded  me 
of  the  natural  barrier  between  Animula  and  myself.  I  hur- 
riedly looked  down  on  the  stage  of  the  microscope.  The 
slide  was  still  there,  —  but,  great  heavens  !  the  water-drop 
had  vanished  !  The  awful  truth  burst  upon  me ;  it  had 
evaporated,  until  it  had  become  so  minute  as  to  be  invisible 
to  the  naked  eye  ;  I  had  been  gazing  on  its  last  atom,  the 
one  that  contained  Animula,  —  and  she  was  dying  ! 

I  rushed  again  to  the  front  of  the  lens,  and  looked 
through.  Alas  !  the  last  agony  had  seized  her.  The  rain- 
bow-hued  forests  had  all  melted  away,  and  Animula  lay 
struggling  feebly  in  what  seemed  to  be  a  spot  of  dim  light. 
Ah  !  the  sight  was  horrible  :  the  limbs  once  so  round  and 
lovely  shrivelling  up  into  nothings  ;  the  eyes  —  those  eyes 
that  shone  like  heaven  —  being  quenched  into  black  dust ; 
the  lustrous  golden  hair  now  lank  and  discolored.  The  last 
throe  came.  I  beheld  that  final  struggle  of  the  blackening 
form  —  and  I  fainted. 

When  I  awoke  out  of  a  trance  of  many  hours,  I  found 
myself  lying  amid  the  wreck  of  my  instrument,  myself  as 
shattered  in  mind  and  body  as  it.  I  crawled  feebly  to  my 
bed,  from  which  I  did  not  rise  for  months. 

They  say  now  that  I  am  mad  ;  but  they  are  mistaken. 
I  am  poor,  for  I  have  neither  the  heart  nor  the  will  to  work ; 
all  my  money  is  spent,  and  I  live  on  charity.  Young  men's 
associations  that  love  a  joke  invite  me  to  lecture  on  Optics 


The  Diamond  Lens. 


49 


before  them,  for  which  they  pay  me,  and  laugh  at  me  while 
I  lecture.  "  Linley,  the  mad  microscopist,"  is  the  name  I 
go  by.  I  suppose  that  I  talk  incoherently  while  I  lecture. 
Who  could  talk  sense  when  his  brain  is  haunted  by  such 
ghastly  memories,  while  ever  and  anon  among  the  shapes 
of  death  I  behold  the  radiant  form  of  my  lost  Animula  ! 


LIFE    IN    THE    IRON-MILLS. 


Is  this  the  end  ? 

O  Life,  as  futile,  then,  as  frail  ! 

What  hope  of  answer  or 'redress  ? ' 


CLOUDY  day :  do  you  know  what  that  is  in  a 
town  of  iron-works  ?  The  sky  sank  down  before 
dawn,  muddy,  flat,  immovable.  The  air  is  thick, 
clammy  with  the  breath  of  crowded  human  beings.  It 
stifles  me.  I  open  the  window,  and,  looking  out,  can 
scarcely  see  through  the  rain  the  grocer's  shop  opposite, 
where  a  crowd  of  drunken  Irishmen  are  purring  Lynchburg 
tobacco  in  their  pipes.  I  can  detect  the  scent  through  all 
the  foul  smells  ranging  loose  in  the  air. 

The  idiosyncrasy  of  this  town  is  smoke.  It  rolls  sullenly 
in  slow  folds  from  the  great  chimneys  of  the  iron-founderies, 
and  settles  down  in  black,  slimy  pools  on  the  muddy  streets. 
Smoke  on  the  wharves,  smoke  on  the  dingy  boats,  on  the 
yellow  river,  —  clinging  in  a  coating  of  greasy  soot  to  the 
house-front,  the  two  faded  poplars,  the  faces  of  the  passers- 
by.  The  long  train  of  mules,  dragging  masses  of  pig-iron 
through  the  narrow  street,  have  a  foul  vapor  hanging  to 
their  reeking  sides.  Here,  inside,  is  a  little  broken  figure 
of  an  angel  pointing  upward  from  the  mantel-shelf;  but 
even  its  wings  are  covered  with  smoke,  clotted  and  black. 
Smoke  everywhere  !  A  dirty  canary  chirps  desolately  in  a 
cage  beside  me.  Its  dream  of  green  fields  and  sunshine  is 
a  very  old  dream,  —  almost  worn  out,  I  think. 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  51 

From  the  back-window  I  can  see  a  narrow  brick-yard 
sloping  down  to  the  river-side,  strewed  with  rain-butts  and 
tubs.  The  river,  dull  and  tawny-colored,  (la  belle  riviere  /) 
drags  itself  sluggishly  along,  tired  of  the  heavy  weight  of 
boats  and  coal-barges.  What  wonder  ?  When  I  was  a 
child,  I  used  to  fancy  a  look  of  weary,  dumb  appeal  upon 
the  face  of  the  negro-like  river  slavishly  bearing  its  burden 
day  after  day.  Something  of  the  same  idle  notion  comes  to 
me  to-day,  when  from  the  street-window  I  look  on  the  slow 
stream  of  human  life  creeping  past,  night  and  morning,  to 
the  great  mills.  Masses  of  men,  with  dull,  besotted  faces 
bent  to  the  ground,  sharpened  here  and  there  by  pain  or 
cunning  ;  skin  and  muscle  and  flesh  begrimed  with  smoke 
and  ashes  ;  stooping  all  night  over  boiling  caldrons  of 
metal,  laired  by  day  in  dens  of  drunkenness  and  infamy ; 
breathing  from  infancy  to  death  an  air  saturated  with  fog 
and  grease  and  soot,  vileness  for  soul  and  body.  What  do 
you  make  of  a  case  like  that,  amateur  psychologist  ?  You 
call  it  an  altogether  serious  thing  to  be  alive  :  to  these  men 
it  is  a  drunken  jest,  a  joke,  —  horrible  to  angels  perhaps,  to 
them  commonplace  enough.  My  fancy  about  the  river  was 
an  idle  one  :  it  is  no  type  of  such  'a  life.  What  if  it  be 
stagnant  and  slimy  here  ?  It  knows  that  beyond  there  waits 
for  it  odorous  sunlight,  —  quaint  old  gardens,  dusky  with 
soft,  green  foliage  of  apple-trees,  and  flushing  crimson  with 
roses,  —  air,  and  fields,  and  mountains.  The  future  of  the 
Welsh  puddler  passing  just  now  is  not  so  pleasant.  To  be 
stowed  away,  after  his  grimy  work  is  done,  in  a  hole  in  the 
muddy  graveyard,  and  after  that,  —  not  air,  nor  green  fields, 
nor  curious  roses. 

Can  you  see  how  foggy  the  day  is  ?  As  I  stand  here,  idly 
tapping  the  window-pane,  and  looking  out  through  the  rain 
at  the  dirty  back-yard  and  the  coal-boats  below,  fragments 
of  an  old  story  float  up  before  me,  —  a  story  of  this  house 
into  which  I  happened  to  come  to-day.  You  may  think  it  a 
tiresome  story  enough,  as  foggy  as  the  day,  sharpened  by  no 
sudden  flashes  of  pain  or  pleasure.  I  know  :  only  the  out- 


52  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

line  of  a  dull  life,  that  long  since,  with  thousands  of  dull 
lives  like  its  own,  was  vainly  lived  and  lost :  thousands  of 
them,  —  massed,  vile,  slimy  lives,  like  those  of  the  torpid 
lizards  in  yonder  stagnant  water-butt.  —  Lost  ?  There  is  a 
curious  point  for  you  to  settle,  my  friend,  who  study  psy- 
chology in  a  lazy,  dilettante  way.  Stop  a  moment.  I  am 
going  to  be  honest.  This  is  what  I  want  you  to  do.  I 
want  you  to  hide  your  disgust,  take  no  heed  to  your  clean 
clothes,  and  come  right  down  with  me,  —  here,  into  the 
thickest  of  the  fog  and  mud  and  foul  effluvia.  I  want  you 
to  hear  this  story.  There  is  a  secret  down  here,  in  this 
nightmare  fog,  that  has  lain  dumb  for  centuries  :  I  want  to 
make  it  a  real  thing  to  you.  You,  Egoist,  or  Pantheist,  or 
Arminian,  busy  in  making  straight  paths  for  your  feet  on 
the  hills,  do  not  see  it  clearly,  —  this  terrible  question  which 
men  here  have  gone  mad  and  died  trying  to  answer.  I  dare 
not  put  this  secret  into  words.  I  told  you  it  was  dumb. 
These  men,  going  by  with  drunken  faces,  and  brains  full  of 
unawakened  power,  do  not  ask  it  of  Society  or  of  God. 
Their  lives  ask  it ;  their  deaths  ask  it.  There  is  no  reply. 
I  will  tell  you  plainly  that  I  have  a  great  hope  ;  and  I  bring 
it  to  you  to  be  tested.  It  is  this  :  that  this  terrible  dumb 
question  is  its  own  reply ;  that  it  is  not  the  sentence  of 
death  we  think  it,  but,  from  the  very  extremity  of  its  dark- 
ness, the  most  solemn  prophecy  which  the  world  has  known 
of  the  Hope  to  come.  I  dare  make  my  meaning  no  clearer, 
but  will  only  tell  my  story.  It  will,  perhaps,  seem  to  you  as 
foul  and  dark  as  this  thick  vapor  about  us,  and  as  pregnant 
with  death  ;  but  if  your  eyes  are  free  as  mine  are  to  look 
deeper,  no  perfume-tinted  dawn  will  be  so  fair  with  promise 
of  the  day  that  shall  surely  come. 

My  story  is  very  simple,  —  only  what  I  remember  of  the 
life  of  one  of  these  men,  —  a  furnace-tender  in  one  of  Kirby 
&  John's  rolling-mills,  —  Hugh  Wolfe.  You  know  the 
mills  ?  They  took  the  great  order  for  the  lower  Virginia 
railroads  there  last  winter  ;  run  usually  with  about  a  thou- 
sand men.  I  cannot  tell  why  I  choose  the  half-forgotten 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  53 

story  of  this  Wolfe  more  than  that  of  myriads  of  these  fur- 
nace-hands. Perhaps  because  there  is  a  secret,  underlying 
sympathy  between  that  story  and  this  day  with  its  impure 
fog  and  thwarted  sunshine,  —  or  perhaps  simply  for  the 
reason  that  this  house  is  the  one  where  the  Wolfes  lived. 
There  were  the  father  and  son,  —  both  hands,  as  I  said,  in 
one  of  Kirby  &  John's  mills  for  making  railroad-iron,  —  and 
Deborah,  their  cousin,  a  picker  in  some  of  the  cotton-mills. 
The  house  was  rented  then  to  half  a  dozen  families.  The 
Wolfes  had  two  of  the  cellar-rooms.  The  old  man,  like 
many  of  the  puddlers  and  feeders  of  the  mills,  was  Welsh, 
—  had  spent  half  of  his  life  in  the  Cornish  tin-mines.  You 
may  pick  the  Welsh  emigrants,  Cornish  miners,  out  of  the 
throng  passing  the  windows,  any  day.  They  are  a  trifle 
more  filthy  ;  their  muscles  are  not  so  brawny  ;  they  stoop 
more.  When  they  are  drunk,  they  neither  yell,  nor  shout, 
nor  stagger,  but  skulk  along  like  beaten  hounds.  A  pure, 
unmixed  blood,  I  fancy,  shows  itself  in  the  slight  angular 
bodies  and  sharply-cut  facial  lines.  It  is  nearly  thirty  years 
since  the  Wolfes  lived  here.  Their  lives  were  like  those  of 
their  class  :  incessant  labor,  sleeping  in  kennel-like  rooms, 
eating  rank  pork  and  molasses,  drinking  —  God  and  the  dis- 
tillers only  know  what ;  -with  an  occasional  night  in  jail,  to 
atone  for  some  drunken  excess.  Is  that  all  of  their  lives  ?  — 
of  the  portion  given  to  them  and  these  their  duplicates 
swarming  the  streets  to-day? — nothing  beneath?  —  all? 
So  many  a  political  reformer  will  tell  you,  —  and  many  a 
private  reformer,  too,  who  has  gone  among  them  with  a 
heart  tender  with  Christ's  charity,  and  come  out  outraged, 
hardened. 

One  rainy  night,  about  eleven  o'clock,  a  crowd  of  half- 
clothed  women  stopped  outside  of  the  cellar-door.  They 
were  going  home  from  the  cotton-mill. 

"  Good-night,  Deb,"  said  one,  a  mulatto,  steadying  her- 
self against  the  gas-post.  She  needed  the  post  to  steady 
her.  So  did  more  than  one  of  them. 

"  Dah  's  a  ball  to  Miss  Potts'  to-night.     Ye  'd  best  come." 


54  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

"  Inteet,  Deb,  if  hur  '11  come,  hur  '11  hef  fun,"  said  a  shrill 
Welsh  voice  in  the  crowd. 

Two  or  three  dirty  hands  were  thrust  out  to  catch  the 
gown  of  the  woman,  who  was  groping  for  the  latch  of  the 
door.  ^ 

"  No." 

"  No  ?    Where 's  Kit  Small,  then  ?  " 

"  Begorra !  on  the  spools.  Alleys  behint,  though  we 
helped  her,  we  dud.  An  wid  ye  !  Let  Deb  alone  !  It 's 
ondacent  frettin'  a  quite  body.  Be  the  powers,  an'%  we  '11 
have  a  night  of  it !  there  '11  be  lashin's  o'  drink,  —  the  Var- 
gent  be  blessed  and  praised  for 't !  " 

They  went  on,  the  mulatto  inclining  for  a  moment  to  show 
fight,  and  drag  the  woman  Wolfe  off  with  them  ;  but,  being 
pacified,  she  staggered  away. 

Deborah  groped  her  way  into  the  cellar,  and,  after  con- 
siderable stumbling,  kindled  a  match,  and  lighted  a  tallow 
dip,  that  sent  a  yellow  glimmer  over  the  room.  It  was  low, 
damp,  —  the  earthen  floor  covered  with  a  green,  slimy  moss, 
—  a  fetid  air  smothering  the  breath.  Old  Wolfe  lay  asleep 
on  a  heap  of  straw,  wrapped  in  a  torn  horse-blanket.  He 
was  a  pale,  meek  little  man,  with  a  white  face  and  red  rab- 
bit-eyes. '  The  woman  Deborah  was  like  him ;  only  her 
face  was  even  more  ghastly,  her  lips  bluer,  her  eyes  more 
watery.  She  wore  a  faded  cotton  gown  and  a  slouching 
bonnet.  When  she  walked,  one  could  see  that  she  was  de- 
formed, almost  a  hunchback.  She  trod  softly,  so  as  not  to 
waken  him,  and  went  through  into  the  room  beyond.  There 
she  found  by  the  half-extinguished  fire  an  iron  saucepan 
filled  with  cold  boiled  potatoes,  which  she  put  upon  a  broken 
chair  with  a  pint-cup  of  ale.  Placing  the  old  candlestick 
beside  this  dainty  repast,  she  untied  her  bonnet,  which  hung 
limp'  and  wet  over  her  face,  and  prepared  to  eat  her  supper. 
It  was  the  first  food  that  had  touched  her  lips  since  morn- 
ing. There  was  enough  of  it,  however  :  there  is  not  always. 
She  was  hungry,  —  one  could  see  that  easily  enough,  —  and 
not  drunk,  as  most  of  her  companions  would  have  been 


Life  in  the  Iron- Mills.  55 

found  at  this  hour.  She  did  not  drink,  this  woman,  —  her 
face  told  that  too,  —  nothing  stronger  than  ale.  Perhaps 
the  weak,  flaccid  wretch  had  some  stimulant  in  her  pale  life 
to  keep  her  up,  —  some  love  or  hope,  it  might  be,  or  urgent 
need.  When  that  stimulant  was  gone,  she  would  take  to 
whiskey.  Man  cannot  live  by  work  alone.  While  she  was 
skinning  the  potatoes,  and  munching  them,  a  noise  behind 
her  made  her  stop. 

"  Janey  !  "  she  called,  lifting  the  candle  and  peering  into 
the  darkness.  "  Janey,  are  you  there  ?  " 

A  heap  of  ragged  coats  was  heaved  up,  and  the  face  of  a 
young  girl  emerged,  staring  sleepily  at  the  woman. 

"  Deborah,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  I  'm  here  the  night." 

"  Yes,  child.     Hur  's  welcome,"  she  said,  quietly  eating  on. 

The  girl's  face  was  haggard  and  sickly ;  her  eyes  were 
heavy  with  sleep  and  hunger  :  real  Milesian  eyes  they  were, 
dark,  delicate  blue,  glooming  out  from  black  shadows  with 
a  pitiful  fright. 

"  I  was  alone,"  she  said,  timidly. 

"  Where 's  the  father  ?  "  asked  Deborah,  holding  out  a 
potato,  which  the  girl  greedily  seized. 

"  He 's  bey  ant,  —  wid  Haley,  —  in  the  stone  house." 
(Did  you  ever  hear  the  word/#z7  from  an  Irish  mouth?)  "  I 
came  here.  Hugh  told  me  never  to  stay  me-lone." 

"Hugh?" 

«  Yes." 

A  vexed  frown  crossed  her  face.  The  girl  saw  it,  and 
added  quickly,  — 

"  I  have  not  seen  Hugh  the  day,  Deb.  The  old  man  says 
his  watch  lasts  till  the  mornin'." 

The  woman  sprang  up,  and  hastily  began  to  arrange  some 
bread  and  flitch  in  a  tin  pail,  and  to  pour  her  own  measure 
of  ale  into  a  bottle.  Tying  on  her  bonnet,  she  blew  out  the 
candle. 

"  Lay  ye  down,  Janey  dear,"  she  said,  gently,  covering  her 
with  the  old  rags.  "  Hur  can  eat  the  potatoes,  if  hur  's 
hungry." 


56  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

"  Where  are  ye  goin',  Deb  ?    The  rain  's  sharp." 

"  To  the  mill,  with  Hugh's  supper." 

"  Let  him  bide  till  th'  morn.     Sit  ye  down." 

"  No,  no,"  —  sharply  pushing  her  off.  "  The  boy  '11 
starve." 

She  hurried  from  the  cellar,  while  the  child  wearily  coiled 
herself  up  for  sleep.  The  rain  was  falling  heavily,  as  the 
woman,  pail  in  hand,  emerged  from  the  mouth  of  the  alley, 
and  turned  down  the  narrow  street,  that  stretched  out,  long 
and  black,  miles  before  her.  Here  and  there  a  flicker  of 
gas  lighted  an  uncertain  space  of  muddy  footwalk  and  gut- 
ter ;  the  long  rows  of  houses,  except  an  occasional  lager-bier 
shop,  were  closed  ;  now  and  then  she  met  a  band  of  mill- 
hands  skulking  to  or  from  their  work. 

Not  many  even  of  the  inhabitants  of  a  manufacturing 
town  know  the  vast  machinery  of  system  by  which  the 
bodies  of  workmen  are  governed,  that  goes  on  unceasingly 
from  year  to  year.  :  The  hands  of  each  mill  are  divided  into 
watches  that  relieve  each  other  as  regularly  as  the  sentinels 
of  an  army.  By  night  and  day  the  work  goes  on,  the  un- 
sleeping engines  groan  and  shriek,  the  fiery  pools  of  metal 
boil  and  surge.  Only  for  a  day  in  the  week,  in  half-courtesy 
to  public  censure,  the  fires  are  partially  veiled  ;  but  as  soon 
as  the  clock  strikes  midnight,  the  great  furnaces  break  forth 
with  renewed  fury,  the  clamor  begins  with  fresh,  breathless 
vigor,  the  engines  sob  and  shriek  like  "  gods  in  pain." 

As  Deborah  hurried  down  through  the  heavy  rain,  the 
noise  of  these  thousand  engines  sounded  through  the  sleep 
and  shadow  of  the  city  like  far-off  thunder.  The  mill  to 
which  she  was  going  lay  on  the  river,  a  mile  below  the  city- 
limits.  It  was  far,  and  she  was  weak,  aching  from  standing 
twelve  hours  at  the  spools.  Yet  it  was  her  almost  nightly 
walk  to  take  this  man  his  supper,  though  at  every  square 
she  sat  down  to  rest,  and  she  knew  she  should  receive  small 
word  of  thanks. 

Perhaps,  if  she  had  possessed  an  artist's  eye,  the  pic- 
turesque oddity  of  the  scene  might  have  made  her  step  stag- 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  57 

ger  less,  and  the  path  seem  shorter ;  but  to  her  the  mills 
were  only  "  summat  deilish  to  look  at  by  night." 

The  road  leading  to  the  mills  had  been  quarried  from  the 
solid  rock,  which  rose  abrupt  and  bare  on  one  side  of  the 
cinder-covered  road,  while  the  river,  sluggish  and  black, 
crept  past  on  the  other.  The  mills  for  rolling  iron  are  sim- 
ply immense  tent-like  roofs,  covering  acres  of  ground,  open 
on  every  side.  Beneath  these  roofs  Deborah  looked  in  on 
a  city  of  fires,  that  burned  hot  and  fiercely  in  the  night. 
Fire  in  every  horrible  form :  pits  of  flame  waving  in  the 
wind ;  liquid  metal-flames  writhing  in  tortuous  streams 
through  the  sand  ;  wide  caldrons  filled  with  boiling  fire, 
over  which  bent  ghastly  wretches  stirring  the  strange  brew- 
ing ;  and  through  all,  crowds  of  half-clad  men,  looking  like 
revengeful  ghosts  in  the  red  light,  hurried,  throwing  masses 
of  glittering  fire.  It  was  like  a  street  in  Hell.  Even 
Deborah  muttered,  as  she  crept  through,  "  'T  looks  like 
t'  Devil's  place  !  "  It  did,  —  in  more  ways  than  one. 

She  found  the  man  she  was  looking  for,  at  last,  heaping 
coal  on  a  furnace.  He  had  not  time  to  eat  his  supper  ;  so 
she  went  behind  the  furnace,  and  waited.  Only  a  few  men 
were  with  him,  and  they  noticed  her  only  by  a  "  Hyur  comes 
t'  hunchback,  Wolfe." 

Deborah  was  stupid  with  sleep  ;  her  back  pained  her 
sharply ;  and  her  teeth  chattered  with  cold,  with  the  rain 
that  soaked  her  clothes  and  dripped  from  her  at  every  step. 
She  stood,  however,  patiently  holding  the  pail,  and  waiting. 

"  Hout,  woman  !  ye  look  like  a  drowned  cat.  Come  near 
to  the  fire,"  —  said  one  of  the  men,  approaehing  to  scrape 
away  the  ashes. 

She  shook  her  head.  Wolfe  had  forgotten  her.  He 
turned,  hearing  the  man,  and  came'  closer. 

"  I  did  no'  think  ;  g'  me  my  supper,  woman." 

She  watched  him  eat  with  a  painful  eagerness.     With  a 
woman's  quick  instinct,  she  saw  that  he  was  not  hungry,  — 
was  eating  to  please  her.     Her  pale,  watery  eyes  began  to 
gather  a  strange  light. 
3* 


58  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

"  Is 't  good,  Hugh  ?    T  ale  was  a  bit  sour,  I  feared." 

"  No,  good  enough."  He  hesitated  a  moment.  "  Ye  're 
tired,  poor  lass  !  Bide  here  till  I  go.  Lay  down  there  on 
that  heap  of  ash,  and  go  to  sleep." 

He  threw  her  an  old  coat  for  a  pillow,  and  turned  to  his 
work.  The  heap  was  the  refuse  of  the  burnt  iron,  and  was 
not  a  hard  bed  ;  the  half- smothered  warmth,  too,  pene- 
trated her  limbs,  dulling  their  pain  and  cold  shiver. 

Miserable  enough  she  looked,  lying  there  on  the  ashes 
like  a  limp,  dirty  rag,  —  yet  not  an  unfitting  figure  to  crown 
the  scene  of  hopeless  discomfort  and  veiled  crime  :  more 
fitting,  if  one  looked  deeper  into  the  heart  of  things,  —  at 
her  thwarted  woman's  form,  her  colorless  life,  her  waking 
stupor  that  smothered  pain  and  hunger,  —  even  more  fit  to 
be  a  type  of  her  class.  Deeper  yet  if  one  could  look  ;  was 
there  nothing  worth  reading  in  this  wet,  faded  thing,  half 
covered  with  ashes  ?  no  story  of  a  soul  filled  with  groping, 
passionate  love,  heroic  unselfishness,  fierce  jealousy?  of 
years  of  weary  trying  to  please  the  one  human  being  whom 
she  loved,  to  gain  one  look  of  real  heart-kindness  from  him  ? 
If  anything  like  this  were  hidden  beneath  the  pale,  bleared 
eyes,  and  dull,  washed-out-looking  face,  no  one  had  ever 
taken  the  trouble  to  read  its  faint  signs  :  not  the  half- 
clothed  furnace-tender,  Wolfe,  certainly.  Yet  he  was  kind 
to  her  :  it  was  his  nature  to  be  kind,  even  to  the  very  rats 
that  swarmed  in  the  cellar :  kind  to  her  in  just  the  same 
way.  She  knew  that.  And  it  might  be  that  very  knowledge 
had  given  to  her  face  its  apathy  and  vacancy  more  than 
her  low,  torpid  life.  One  sees  that  dead,  vacant  look  steal 
sometimes  over  the  rarest,  finest  of  women's  faces,  —  in  the 
very  midst,  it  may  be,  of  their  warmest  summer's  day  ;  and 
then  one  can  guess  at  the  secret  of  intolerable  solitude  that 
lies  hid  beneath  the  delicate  laces  and  brilliant  smile. 
There  was  no  warmth,  no  brilliancy,  no  summer  for  this 
woman  ;  so  the  stupor  and  vacancy  had  time  to  gnaw  into 
her  face  perpetually.  She  was  young,  too,  though  no  one 
guessed  it ;  so  the  gnawing  was  the  fiercer. 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  59 

She  lay  quiet  in  the  dark  corner,  listening,  through  the 
monotonous  din  and  uncertain  glare  of  the  works,  to  the 
dull  plash  of  the  rain  in  the  far  distance,  —  shrinking  back 
whenever  the  man  Wolfe  happened  to  look  towards  her. 
She  knew,  in  spite  of  all  his  kindness,  that  there  was  that  in 
her  face  and  form  which  made  him  loathe  the  sight  of  her. 
She  felt  by  instinct,  although  she  could  not  comprehend  it, 
the  finer  nature  of  the  man,  which  made  him  among  his  fel- 
low-workmen something  unique,  set  apart.  She  knew,  that, 
down  under  all  the  vileness  and  coarseness  of  his  life,  there 
was  a  groping  passion  for  whatever  was  beautiful  and  pure, 
—  that  his  soul  sickened  with  disgust  at  her  deformity,  even 
when  his  words  were  kindest.  Through  this  dull  conscious- 
ness, which  never  left  her,  came,  like  a  sting,  the  recollection 
of  the  dark  blue  eyes  and  lithe  figure  of  the  little  Irish  girl 
she  had  left  in  the  cellar.  The  recollection  struck  through 
even  her  stupid  intellect  with  a  vivid  glow  of  beauty  and  of 
grace.  Little  Janey,  timid,  helpless,  clinging  to  Hugh  as 
her  only  friend  :  that  was  the  sharp  thought,  the  bitter 
thought,  that  drove  into  the  glazed  eyes  a  fierce  light  of  pain. 
You  laugh  at  it  ?  Are  pain  and  jealousy  less  savage  realities 
down  here  in  this  place  I  am  taking  you  to  than  in  your 
own  house  or  your  own  heart,  —  your  heart,  which  they 
clutch  at  sometimes  ?  The  note  is  the  same,  I  fancy,  be  the 
octave  high  or  low. 

If  you  could  go  into  this  mill  where  Deborah  lay,  and 
drag  out  from  the  hearts  of  these  men  the  terrible  tragedy 
of  their  lives,  taking  it  as  a  symptom  of  the  disease  of  their 
class,  no  ghost  Horror  would  terrify  you  more.  A  reality 
of  soul-starvation,  of  living  death,  that  meets  you  every  day 
under  the  besotted  faces  on  the  street — I  can  paint  noth- 
ing of  this,  only  give  you  the  outside  outlines  of  a  night,  a 
crisis  in  the  life  of  one  man  :  whatever  muddy  depth  of  soul- 
history  lies  beneath  you  can  read  according  to  the  eyes  God 
has  given  you. 

Wolfe,  while  Deborah  watched  him  as  a  spaniel  its  mas- 
ter, bent  over  the  furnace  with  his  iron  pole,  unconscious  of 


60  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

her  scrutiny,  only  stopping  to  receive  orders.  Physically, 
Nature  had  promised  the  man  but  little.  He  had  already 
lost  the  strength  and  instinct  vigor  of  a  man,  his  muscles 
were  thin,  his  nerves  weak,  his  face  (a  meek,  woman's  face) 
haggard,  yellow  with  consumption.  In  the  mill  he  was 
known  as  one  of  the  girl-men  :  "  Molly  Wolfe  "  was  his  so- 
briquet. He  was  never  seen  in  the  cockpit,  did  not  own  a 
terrier,  drank  but  seldom  ;  when  he  did,  desperately.  He 
fought  sometimes,  but  was  always  thrashed,  pommelled  to  a 
jelly.  The  man  was  game  enough,  when  his  blood  was  up  : 
but  he  was  no  favorite  in  the  mill ;  he  had  the  taint  of 
school-learning  on  him,  —  not  to  a  dangerous  extent,  only  a 
quarter  or  so  in  the  free-school  in  fact,  but  enough  to  ruin 
him  as  a  good  hand  in  a  fight. 

For  other  reasons,  too,  he  was  not  popular.  Not  one  of 
themselves,  they  felt  that,  though  outwardly  as  filthy  and 
ash-covered ;  silent,  with  foreign  thoughts  and  longings 
breaking  out  through  his  quietness  in  innumerable  curious 
ways  :  this  one,  for  instance.  In  the  neighboring  furnace- 
buildings  lay  great  heaps  of  the  refuse  from  the  ore  after  the 
pig-metal  is  run.  Korl  we  call  it  here  :  a  light,  porous 
substance,  of  a  delicate,  waxen,  flesh-colored  tinge.  Out  of 
the  blocks  of  this  korl,  Wolfe,  in  his  off-hours  from  the  fur- 
nace, had  a  habit  of  chipping  and  moulding  figures,  —  hide- 
ous, fantastic  enough,  but  sometimes  strangely  beautiful : 
even  the  mill-men  saw  that,  while  they  jeered  at  him.  It 
was  a  curious  fancy  in  the  man,  almost  a  passion.  The 
few  hours  for  rest  he  spent  hewing  and  hacking  with  his 
blunt  knife,  never  speaking,  until  his  watch  came  again,  — 
working  at  one  figure  for  months,  and,  when  it  was  finished, 
breaking  it  to  pieces  perhaps,  in  a  fit  of  disappointment.  A 
morbid,  gloomy  man,  untaught,  unled,  left  to  feed  his  soul 
in  grossness  and  crime,  and  hard,  grinding  labor. 

I  want  you  to  come  down  and  look  at  this  Wolfe,  stand- 
ing there  among  the  lowest  of  his  kind,  and  see  him  just  as 
he  is,  that  you  may  judge  him  justly  when  you  hear  the 
-story  of  this  night  I  want  you  to  look  back,  as  he  does 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  6 1 

every  day,  at  his  birth  in  vice,  his  starved  infancy  ;  to  re- 
member the  heavy  years  he  has  groped  through  as  boy  and 
man,  —  the  slow,  heavy  years  of  constant,  hot  work.  So 
long  ago  he  began,  that  he  thinks  sometimes  he  has  worked 
there  for  ages.  There  is  no  hope  that  it  will  ever  end. 
Think  that  God  put  into  this  man's  soul  a  fierce  thirst  for 
beauty,  —  to  know  it,  to  create  it ;  to  be  —  something,  he 
knows  not  what,  —  other  than  he  is.  There  are  moments 
when  a  passing  cloud,  the  sun  glinting  on  the  purple  this- 
tles, a  kindly  smile,  a  child's  face,  will  rouse  him  to  a  passion 
of  pain,  —  when  his  nature  starts  up  with  a  mad  cry  of  rage 
against  God,  man,  whoever  it  is  that  has  forced  this  vile, 
slimy  life  upon  him.  With  all  this  groping,  this  mad  desire, 
a  great  blind  intellect  stumbling  through  wrong,  a  loving 
poet's  heart,  the  man  was  by  habit  only  a  coarse,  vulgar  la- 
borer, familiar  with  sights  and  words  you  would  blush  to 
name.  Be  just :  when  I  tell  you  about  this  night,  see  him 
as  he  is.  Be  just,  —  not  like  man's  law,  which  seizes  on  one 
isolated  fact,  but  like  God's  judging  angel,  whose  clear,  sad 
eye  saw  all  the  countless  cankering  days  of  this  man's  life, 
all  the  countless  nights,  when,  sick  with  starving,  his  soul 
fainted  in  him,  before  it  judged  him  for  this  night,  the  saddest 
of  all. 

I  called  this  night  the  crisis  of  his  life.  If  it  was,  it  stole 
on  him  unawares.  These  great  turning-days  of  life  cast  no 
shadow  before,  slip  by  unconsciously.  Only  a  trifle,  a  little 
turn  of  the  rudder,  and  the  ship  goes  to  heaven  or  hell. 

Wolfe,  while  Deborah  watched  him,  dug  into  the  furnace 
of  melting  iron  with  his  pole,  dully  thinking  only  how  many 
rails  the  lump  would  yield.  It  was  late,  —  nearly  Sunday 
morning  ;  another  hour,  and  the  heavy  work  would  be  done, 
—  only  the  furnaces  to  replenish  and  cover  for  the  next  day. 
The  workmen  were  growing  more  noisy,  shouting,  as  they 
had  to  do,  to  be  heard  over  the  deep  clamor  of  the  mills. 
Suddenly  they  grew  less  boisterous,  —  at  the  far  end,  en- 
tirely silent.  Something  unusual  had  happened.  After  a 
moment,  the  silence  came  nearer ;  the  men  stopped  their 


62  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

jeers  and  drunken  choruses.  Deborah,  stupidly  lifting  up 
her  head,  saw  the  cause  of  the  quiet.  A  group  of  five  or 
six  men  were  slowly  approaching,  stopping  to  examine  each 
furnace  as  they  came.  Visitors  often  came  to  see  the  mills 
after  night :  except  by  growing  less  noisy,  the  men  took  no 
notice  of  them.  The  furnace  where  Wolfe  worked  was  near 
the  bounds  of  the  works  ;  they  halted  there  hot  and  tired  : 
a  walk  over  one  of  these  great  founderies  is  no  trifling  task. 
The  woman,  drawing  out  of  sight,  turned  over  to  sleep. 
Wolfe,  seeing  them  stop,  suddenly  roused  from  his  indiffer- 
ent stupor,  and  watched  them  keenly.  He  knew  some  of 
them  :  the  overseer,  Clarke,  —  a  son  of  Kirby,  one  of  the 
mill-owners,  —  and  a  Doctor  May,  one  of  the  town-physi- 
cians. The  other  two  were  strangers.  Wolfe  came  closer. 
He  seized  eagerly  every  chance  that  brought  him  into  con- 
tact with  this  mysterious  class  that  shone  down  on  him  per- 
petually with  the  glamour  of  another  order  of  being.  What 
made  the  difference  between  them  ?  That  was  the  mystery 
of  his  life.  He  had  a  vague  notion  that  perhaps  to-night 
he  could  find  it  out.  One  of  the  strangers  sat  down  on  a 
pile  of  bricks,  and  beckoned  young  Kirby  to  his  side. 

"  This  is  hot,  with  a  vengeance.  A  match,  please  ?  "  — 
lighting  his  cigar.  "  But  the  walk  is  worth  the  trouble.  If 
it  were  not  that  you  must  have  heard  it  so  often,  Kirby,  I 
would  tell  you  that  your  works  look  like  Dante's  Inferno." 

Kirby  laughed. 

"  Yes.  Yonder  is  Farinata  himself  in  the  burning  tomb," 
—  pointing  to  some  figure  in  the  shimmering  shadows. 

"  Judging  from  some  of  the  faces  of  your  men,"  said  the 
other,  "they  bid  fair  to  try  the  reality  of  Dante's  vision, 
some  day." 

Young  Kirby  looked  curiously  around,  as  if  seeing  the 
faces  of  his  hands  for  the  first  time.  g 

"  They  're  bad  enough,  that 's  true.  A  desperate  set,  I 
fancy.  Eh,  Clarke  ?  " 

The  overseer  did  not  hear  him.  He  was  talking  of  net 
profits  just  then,  —  giving,  in  fact,  a  schedule  of  the  annual 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  63 

business  of  the  firm  to  a  sharp  peering  little  Yankee,  who 
jotted  down  notes  on  a  paper  laid  on  the  crown  of  his  hat : 
a  reporter  for  one  of  the  city  papers,  getting  up  a  series  of 
reviews  of  the  leading  manufactories.  The  other  gentlemen 
had  accompanied  them  merely  for  amusement.  They  were 
silent  until  the  notes  were  finished,  drying  their  feet  at  the 
furnaces,  and  sheltering  their  faces  from  the  intolerable  heat. 
At  last  the  overseer  concluded  with  — 

"  I  believe  that  is  a  pretty  fair  estimate,  Captain." 

"  Here,  some  of  you  men  !  "  said  Kirby,  "  bring  up  those 
boards.  We  may  as  well  sit  down,  gentlemen,  until  the 
rain  is  over.  It  cannot  last  much  longer  at  this  rate." 

"  Pig-metal,"  —  mumbled  the  reporter,  —  "  um  !  —  coal  fa- 
cilities, —  um  !  —  hands  employed,  twelve  hundred,  —  bitu- 
men, —  um  !  —  all  right,  I  believe,  Mr.  Clarke  ;  —  sinking- 
fund,  —  what  did  you  say  was  your  sinking-fund  ? " 

"  Twelve  hundred  hands  ? "  said  the  stranger,  the  young 
man  who  had  first  spoken.  "  Do  you  control  their  votes, 
Kirby?" 

"  Control  ?  No."  The  young  man  smiled  complacently. 
"  But  my  father  brought  seven  hundred  votes  to  the  polls 
for  his  candidate  last  November.  No  force-work,  you  un- 
derstand, —  only  a  speech  or  two,  a  hint  to  form  themselves 
into  a  society,  and  a  bit  of  red  and  blue  bunting  to  make 
them  a  flag.  The  Invincible  Roughs,  —  I  believe  that  is 
their  name.  I  forget  the  motto  :  '  Our  country's  hope,'  I 
think." 

There  was  a  laugh.  The  young  man  talking  to  Kirby 
sat  with  an  amused  light  in  his  cool  gray  eye,  surveying 
critically  the  half-clothed  figures  of  the  puddlers,  and  the 
slow  swing  of  their  brawny  muscles.  He  was  a  stranger  in 
the  city,  —  spending  a  couple  of  months  in  the  borders  of  a 
Slave  State,  to  study  the  institutions  of  the  South,  —  a 
brother-in-law  of  Kirby's,  —  Mitchell.  He  was  an  amateur 
gymnast,  —  hence  his  anatomical  eye  ;  a  patron,  in  a  blast 
way,  of  the  prize-ring  ;  a  man  who  sucked  the  essence  out 
of  a  science  or  philosophy  in  an  indifferent,  gentlemanly 


64  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

way ;  who  took  Kant,  Novalis,  Humboldt,  for  what  they 
were  worth  in  his  own  scales  ;  accepting  all,  despising  noth- 
ing, in  heaven,  earth,  or  hell,  but  one-idead  men  ;  with  a 
temper  yielding  and  brilliant  as  summer  water,  until  his 
Self  was  touched,  when  it  was  ice,  though  brilliant  still. 
Such  men  are  not  rare  in  the  States. 

As  he  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar,  Wolfe  caught 
with  a  quick  pleasure  the  contour  of  the  white  hand,  the 
blood-glow  of  a  red  ring  he  wore.  His  voice,  too,  and  that 
of  Kirby's,  touched  him  like  music,  —  low,  even,  with  chord- 
ing  cadences.  About  this  man  Mitchell  hung  the  impalpa- 
ble atmosphere  belonging  to  the  thoroughbred  gentleman. 
Wolfe,  scraping  away  the  ashes  beside  him,  was  conscious 
of  it,  did  obeisance  to  it  with  his  artist  sense,  unconscious 
that  he  did  so. 

The  rain  did  not  cease.  Clarke  and  the  reporter  left  the 
mills ;  the  others,  comfortably  seated  near  the  furnace,  lin- 
gered, smoking  and  talking  in  a  desultory  way.  Greek 
would  not  have  been  more  unintelligible  to  the  furnace- 
tenders,  whose  presence  they  soon  forgot  entirely.  Kirby 
drew  out  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket  and  read  aloud  some 
article,  which  they  discussed  eagerly.  At  every  sentence, 
Wolfe  listened  more  and  more  like  a  dumb,  hopeless  ani- 
mal, with  a  duller,  more  stolid  look  creeping  over  his  face, 
glancing  now  and  then  at  Mitchell,  marking  acutely  every 
smallest  sign  of  refinement,  then  back  to  himself,  seeing  as 
in  a  mirror  his  filthy  body,  his  more  stained  soul. 

Never  !  He  had  no  words  for  such  a  thought,  but  he 
knew  now,  in  all  the  sharpness  of  the  bitter  certainty,  that 
between  them  there  was  a  great  gulf  never  to  be  passed. 
Never ! 

The  bell  of  the  mills  rang  for  midnight.  Sunday  morn- 
ing had  dawned.  Whatever  hidden  message  lay  in  the 
tolling  bells  floated  past  these  men  unknown.  Yet  it  was 
there.  Veiled  in  the  solemn  music  ushering  the  risen  Sav- 
iour was  a  key-note  to  solve  the  darkest  secrets  of  a  world 
gone  wrong,  —  even  this  social  riddle  which  the  brain  of  the 
grimy  puddler  grappled  with  madly  to-night. 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  65 

The  men  began  to  withdraw  the  metal  from  the  caldrons. 
The  mills  were  deserted  on  Sundays,  except  by  the  hands 
who  fed  the  fires,  and  those  who  had  no  lodgings  and  slept 
usually  on  the  ash-heaps.  The  three  strangers  sat  still 
during  the  next  hour,  watching  the  men  cover  the  furnaces, 
laughing  now  and  then  at  some  jest  of  Kirby's. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Mitchell,  "  I  like  this  view  of  the 
works  better  than  when  the  glare  was  fiercest  ?  These  heavy 
shadows  and  the  amphitheatre  of  smothered  fires  are  ghostly, 
-  unreal.  One  .could  fancy  these  red  smouldering  lights  to  be 
the  half-shut  eyes  of  wild  beasts,  and  the  spectral  figures 
their  victims  in  the  den." 

Kirby  laughed.  "  You  are  fanciful.  Come,  let  us  get 
out  of  the  den.  The  spectral  figures,  as  you  call  them,  are 
a  little  too  real  for  me  to  fancy  a  close  proximity  in  the 
darkness,  —  unarmed,  too." 

The  others  rose,  buttoning  their  overcoats,  and  lighting 
cigars. 

"  Raining  still,"  said  Doctor  May,  "  and  hard.  Where 
did  we  leave  the  coach,  Mitchell  ?  " 

"  At  the  other  side  of  the  works.  —  Kirby,  what 's  that  ?  " 

Mitchell  started  back,  half-frightened,  as,  suddenly  turn- 
ing a  corner,  the  white  figure  of  a  woman  faced  him  in  the 
darkness,  —  a  woman,  white,  of  giant  proportions,  crouching 
on  the  ground,  her  arms  flung  out  in  some  wild  gesture  of 
warning. 

"  Stop  !  Make  that  fire  burn  there  !  "  cried  Kirby,  stop- 
ping short 

The  flame  burst  out,  flashing  the  gaunt  figure  into  bold 
relief. 

Mitchell  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  I  thought  it  was  alive,"  he  said,  going  up  curiously. 

The  others  followed. 

"  Not  marble,  eh  ?  "  asked  Kirby,  touching  it 

One  of  the  lower  overseers  stopped. 

"  Korl,  Sir." 

"Who  did  it?" 

E 


66  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

"  Can't  say.  Some  of  the  hands  ;  chipped  it  out  in  off- 
hours." 

"  Chipped  to  some  purpose,  I  should  say.  What  a  flesh- 
tint  the  stuff  has  !  Do  you  see,  Mitchell  ?  " 

"  I  see." 

He  had  stepped  aside  where  the  light  fell  boldest  on  the 
figure,  looking  at  it  in  silence.  There  was  not  one  line  of 
beauty  or  grace  in  it :  a  nude  woman's  form,  muscular, 
grown  coarse  with  labor,  the  powerful  limbs  instinct  with 
some  one  poignant  longing.  One  idea  :  therje  it  was  in  the 
tense,  rigid  muscles,  the  clutching  hands,  the  wild,  eager 
face,  like  that  of  a  starving  wolf's.  Kirby  and  Dr.  May 
walked  around  it,  critical,  curious.  Mitchell  stood  aloof, 
silent.  The  figure  touched  him  strangely. 

"Not  badly  done,"  said  Doctor  May.  "Where  did  the 
fellow  learn  that  sweep  of  the  muscles  in  the  arm  and  hand  ? 
Look  at  them  !  They  are  groping,  —  do  you  see  ?  —  clutch- 
ing :  the  peculiar  action  of  a  man  dying  of  thirst." 

"They  have  ample  facilities  for  studying  anatomy," 
sneered  Kirby,  glancing  at  the  half-naked  figures. 

"  Look,"  continued  the  Doctor,  "  at  this  bony  wrist,  and 
the  strained  sinews  of  the  instep  !  A  working- woman,  —  the 
very  type  of  her  class." 

"  God  forbid  !  "  muttered  Mitchell. 

"  Why  ? "  demanded  May.  "  What  does  the  fellow  intend 
by  the  figure  ?  I  cannot  catch  the  meaning." 

"  Ask  him,"  said  the  other,  dryly.  "  There  he  stands,"  — 
pointing  to  Wolfe,  who  stood  with  a  group  of  men,  leaning 
on  his  ash-rake. 

The  Doctor  beckoned  him  with  the  affable  smile  which 
kind-hearted  men  put  on,  when  talking  to  these  people. 

"  Mr.  Mitchell  has  picked  you  out  as  the  man  who  did 
this,  —  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  why.  But  what  did  you  mean 
by  it  ? " 

"  She  be  hungry." 

Wolfe's  eyes  answered  Mitchell,  not  the  Doctor. 

"  Oh-h  !    But  what  a  mistake  you  have  made,  my  fine 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  67 

fellow  !  You  have  given  no  sign  of  starvation  to  the  body. 
It  is  strong,  —  terribly  strong.  It  has  the  mad,  half-despair- 
ing gesture  of  drowning." 

Wolfe  stammered,  glanced  appealingly  at  Mitchell,  who 
saw  the  soul  of  the  thing,  he  knew.  But  the  cool,  probing 
eyes  were  turned  on  himself  now,  —  mocking,  cruel,  relent- 
less. 

"  Not  hungry  for  meat,"  the  furnace-tender  said  at  last. 

"  What  then  ?  Whiskey  ? "  jeered  Kirby,  with  a  coarse 
laugh. 

Wolfe  was  silent  a  moment,  thinking. 

"  I  dunno,"  he  said,  with  a  bewildered  look.  "  It  mebbe. 
Summat  to  make  her  live,  I  think,  —  like  you.  Whiskey  ull 
do  it,  in  a  way." 

The  young  man  laughed  again.  Mitchell  flashed  a  look 
of  disgust  somewhere,  —  not  at  Wolfe. 

"  May,"  he  broke  out  impatiently,  "  are  you  blind  ?  Look 
at  that  woman's  face  !  It  asks  questions  of  God,  and  says, 
*  I  have  a  right  to  know.'  Good  God,  how  hungry  it  is  !  " 

They  looked  a  moment ;  then  May  turned  to  the  mill- 
owner  :  — 

"  Have  you  many  such  hands  as  this  ?  What  are  you  go- 
ing to  do  with  them  ?  Keep  them  at  puddling  iron  ? " 

Kirby  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Mitchell's  look  had  irri- 
tated him. 

"  Ce  rfest  pas  mon  affaire.  I  have  no  fancy  for  nursing 
infant  geniuses.  I  suppose  there  are  some  stray  gleams  of 
mind  and  soul  among  these  wretches.  The  Lord  will  take 
care  of  his  own  ;  or  else  they  can  work  out  their  own  salva- 
tion. I  have  heard  you  call  our  American  system  a  ladder 
which  any  man  can  scale.  Do  you  doubt  it  ?  Or  perhaps 
you  want  to  banish  all  social  ladders,  and  put  us  all  on  a  flat 
table-land,  —  eh,  May?" 

The  Doctor  looked  vexed,  puzzled.  Some  terrible  prob- 
lem lay  hid  in  this  woman's  face,  and  troubled  these  men. 
Kirby  waited  for  an  answer,  and,  receiving  none,  went  on, 
warming  with  his  subject. 


68  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

"  I  tell  you,  there  's  something  wrong  that  no  talk  of 
'Libertt*  or  '  Egalite*  will  do  away.  If  I  had  the  making 
of  men,  these  men  who  do  the  lowest  part  of  the  world's 
work  should  be  machines,  —  nothing  more, —  hands.  It 
would  be  kindness.  God  help  them  !  What  are  taste, 
reason,  to  creatures  who  must  live  such  lives  as  that  ?  "  He 
pointed  to  Deborah,  sleeping  on  the  ash-heap.  "So  many 
nerves  to  sting  them  to  pain.  What  if  God  had  put  your 
brain,  with  all  its  agony  of  touch,  into  your  fingers,  and  bid 
you  work  and  strike  with  that  ? " 

"  You  think  you  could  govern  the  world  better  ?  "  laughed 
the  Doctor. 

"  I  do  not  think  at  all." 

"  That  is  true  philosophy.  Drift  with  the  stream,  because 
you  cannot  dive  deep  enough  to  find  bottom,  eh  ?  " 

"  Exactly,"  rejoined  Kirby.  "  I  do  not  think.  I  wash  my 
hands  of  all  social  problems,  —  slavery,  caste,  white  or  black. 
My  duty  to  my  operatives  has  a  narrow  limit,  —  the  pay- 
hour  on  Saturday  night.  Outside  of  that,  if.  they  cut  korl,  or 
cut  each  other's  throats,  (the  more  popular  amusement  of 
the  two,)  I  am  not  responsible." 

The  Doctor  sighed,  —  a  good  honest  sigh,  from  the  depths 
,  of  his  stomach. 

"  God  help  us  !    Who  is  responsible  ?  " 

"  Not  I,  I  tell  you,"  said  Kirby,  testily.  "  What  has  the 
man  who  pays  them  money  to  do  with  their  souls'  concerns, 
more  than  the  grocer  or  butcher  who  takes  it  ? " 

"  And  yet,"  said  Mitchell's  cynical  voice,  "  look  at  her  ! 
How  hungry  she  is  ! " 

Kirby  tapped  his  boot  with  his  cane.  No  one  spoke. 
Only  the  dumb  face  of  the  rough  image  looking  into  their 
faces  with  the  awful  question,  "  What  shall  we  do  to  be 
saved  ?  "  Only  Wolfe's  face,  with  its  heavy  weight  of  brain, 
its  weak,  uncertain  mouth,  its  desperate  eyes,  out  of  which 
looked  the  soul  of  his  class,  —  only  Wolfe's  face  turned  to- 
wards Kirb/s.  Mitchell  laughed,  —  a  cool,  musical  laugh. 

"  Money  has  spoken  !  "  he  said,  seating  himself  lightly  on 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  69 

a  stone  with  the  air  of  an  amused  spectator  at  a  play.  "Are 
you  answered?"  —  turning  to  Wolfe  his  clear,  magnetic 
face. 

Bright  and  deep  and  cold  as  Arctic  air,  the  soul  of  the 
man  lay  tranquil  beneath.  He  looked  at  the  furnace-tender 
as  he  had  looked  at  a  rare  mosaic  in  the  morning  ;  only  the 
man  was  the  more  amusing  study  of  the  two. 

"  Are  you  answered  ?  Why,  May,  look  at  him  !  '  De  pro- 
fundis  clamavi?  Or,  to  quote  in  English,  *  Hungry  and 
thirsty,  his  soul  faints  in  him.'  And  so  Money  sends  back 
its  answer  into  the  depths  through  you,  Kirby  !  Very  clear 
the  answer,  too  !  —  I  think  I  remember  reading  the  same 
words  somewhere  :  —  washing  your  hands  in  Eau  de  Co- 
logne, and  saying,  '  I  am  innocent  of  the  blood  of  this  man. 
See  ye  to  it ! ' " 

Kirby  flushed  angrily. 

"  You  quote  Scripture  freely." 

"  Do  I  not  quote  correctly  ?  I  think  I  remember  another 
line,  which  may  amend  my  meaning  :  '  Inasmuch  as  ye  did 
it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these,  ye  did  it  unto  me.'  Deist  ? 
Bless  you,  man,  I  was  raised  on  the  milk  of  the  Word. 
Now,  Doctor,  the  pocket  of  the  world  having  uttered  its 
voice,  what  has  the  heart  to  say  ?  You  are  a  philanthropist, 
in  a  small  way,  —  rfest  ce  pas  f  Here,  boy,  this  gentleman 
can  show  you  how  to  cut  korl  better,  —  or  your  destiny.  Go 
on,  May  ! " 

"  I  think  a  mocking  devil  possesses  you  to-night,"  rejoined 
the  Doctor,  seriously. 

He  went  to  Wolfe  and  put  his  hand  kindly  on  his  arm. 
Something  of  a  vague  idea  possessed  the  Doctor's  brain  that 
much  good  was  to  be  done  here  by  a  friendly  word  or  two  : 
a  latent  genius  to  be  warmed  into  life  by  a  waited-for  sun- 
beam. Here  it  was  :  he  had  brought  it.  So  he  went  on 
complacently :  — 

"Do  you  know,  boy,  you  have  it  in  you  to  be  a  great 
sculptor,  a  great  man?  —  do  you  understand?"  (talking 
down  to  the  capacity  of  his  hearer  :  it  is  a  way  people  have 


JO  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

with  children,  and  men  like  Wolfe,)  —  "  to  live  a  better, 
stronger  life  than  I,  or  Mr.  Kirby  here  ?  A  man  may  make 
himself  anything  he  chooses.  God  has  given  you  stronger 
powers  than  many  men,  —  me,  for  instance." 

May  stopped,  heated,  glowing  with  his  own  magnanimity. 
And  it  was  magnanimous.  The  puddler  had  drunk  in  every 
word,  looking  through  the  Doctor's  flurry,  and  generous 
heat,  and  self-approval,  into  his  will,  with  those  slow,  ab- 
sorbing eyes  of  his. 
^  "  Make  yourself  what  you  will.  It  is  your  right." 

"  I  know,"  quietly.     "  Will  you  help  me  ?  " 

Mitchell  laughed  again.  The  Doctor  turned  now,  in  a 
passion,  — 

*  You  know,  Mitchell,  I  have  not  the  means.  You  know, 
if  I  had,  it  is  in  my  heart  to  take  this  boy  and  educate  him 
for  —  " 

"  The  glory  of  God,  and  the  glory  of  John  May." 

May  did  not  speak  for  a  moment ;  then,  controlled,  he 
said,  — 

"  Why  should  one  be  raised,  when  myriads  are  left  ?  —  I 
have  not  the  money,  boy,"  to  Wolfe,  shortly. 

"  Money  ? "  He  said  it  over  slowly,  as  one  repeats  the 
guessed  answer  to  a  riddle,  doubtfully.  '"That  is  it  ? 
Money  ?  " 

"  Yes,  money,  —  that  is  it,"  said  Mitchell,  rising,  and 
drawing  his  furred  coat  about  him.  "You've  found  the 
cure  for  all  the  world's  diseases.  —  Come,  May,  find  your 
good-humor,  and  come  home.  This  damp  wind  chills  my 
very  bones.  Come  and  preach  your  Saint-Simonian  doc- 
trines to-morrow  to  Kirby's  hands.  Let  them  have  a  clear 
idea  of  the  rights  of  the  soul,  and  I  '11  venture  next  week 
they  '11  strike  for  higher  wages.  That  will  be  the  end  of  it." 

"  Will  you  send  the  coach-driver  to  this  side  of  the 
mills  ? "  asked  Kirby,  turning  to  Wolfe. 

He  spoke  kindly  :  it  was  his  habit  to  do  so.  Deborah, 
seeing  the  puddler  go,  crept  after  him.  The  three  men 
waited  outside.  Doctor  May  walked  up  and  down,  chafed. 
Suddenly  he  stopped. 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  71 

"  Go  back,  Mitchell !  You  say  the  pocket  and  the  heart 
of  the  world  speak  without  meaning  to  these  people.  What 
has  its  head  to  say  ?  Taste,  culture,  refinement  ?  Go  ! " 

Mitchell  was  leaning  against  a  brick  wall.  He  turned  his 
head  indolently,  and  looked  into  the  mills.  There  hung 
about  the  place  a  thick,  unclean  odor.  The  slightest  mo- 
tion of  his  hand  marked  that  he  perceived  it,  and  his  insuf- 
ferable disgust.  That  was  all.  May  said  nothing,  only 
quickened  his  angry  tramp. 

"  Besides,"  added  Mitchell,  giving  a  corollary  to  his  an- 
swer, "  it  would  be  of  no  use.  I  am  not  one  of  them." 

"  You  do  not  mean"  —  said  May,  facing  him. 

"  Yes,  I  mean  just  that.  Reform  is  born  of  need,  not 
pity.  No  vital  movement  of  the  people's  has  worked  down, 
for  good  or  evil ;  fermented,  instead,  carried  up  the  heav- 
ing, cloggy  mass.  Think  back  through  history,  and  you 
will  know  it.  What  will  this  lowest  deep  —  thieves,  Mag- 
dalens,  negroes  —  do  with  the  light  filtered  through  pon- 
derous Church  creeds,  Baconian  theories,  Goethe  schemes  ? 
Some  day,  out  of  their  bitter  need  will  be  thrown  up  their 
own  light-bringer,  —  their  Jean  Paul,  their  Cromwell,  their 
Messiah." 

"  Bah  !  "  was  the  Doctor's  inward  criticism.  However, 
in  practice,  he  adopted  the  theory ;  for,  when,  night  and 
morning,  afterwards,  he  prayed  that  power  might  be  given 
these  degraded  souls  to  rise,  he  glowed  at  heart,  recognizing 
an  accomplished  duty. 

Wolfe  and  the  woman  had  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the 
works  as  the  coach  drove  off.  The  Doctor  had  held  out  his 
hand  in  a  frank,  generous  way,  telling  him  to  "  take  care  of 
himself,  and  to  remember  it  was  his  right  to  rise."  Mitchell 
had  simply  touched  his  hat,  as  to  an  equal,  with  a  quiet 
look  of  thorough  recognition.  Kirby  had  thrown  Deborah 
some  money,  which  she  found,  and  clutched  eagerly  enough. 
They  were  gone  now,  all  of  them.  The  man  sat  down  on 
the  cinder-road,  looking  up  into  the  murky  sky 

"  'T  be  late,  Hugh.     Wunnot  hur  come  ?  " 


72  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

He  shook  his  head  doggedly,  and  the  woman  crouched 
out  of  his  sight  against  the  wall.  Do  you  remember  rare 
moments  when  a  sudden  light  flashed  over  yourself,  your 
world,  God  ?  when  you  stood  on  a  mountain-peak,  seeing 
your  life  as  it  might  have  been,  as  it  is  ?  one  quick  instant, 
when  custom  lost  its  force  and  every-day  usage  ?  when  your 
friend,  wife,  brother,  stood  in  a  new  light  ?  your  soul  was 
bared,  and  the  grave,  —  a  foretaste  of  the  nakedness  of  the 
Judgment-Day  ?  So  it  came  before  him,  his  life,  that  night 
The  slow  tides  of  pain  he  had  borne  gathered  themselves  up 
and  surged  against  his  soul.  His  squalid  daily  life,  the 
brutal  coarseness  eating  into  his  brain,  as  the  ashes  into  his 
skin  :  before,  these  things  had  been  a  dull  aching  into  his 
consciousness  ;  to-night,  they  were  reality.  He  griped  the 
filthy  red  shirt  that  clung,  stiif  with  soot,  about  him,  and 
tore  it  savagely  from  his  arm.  The  flesh  beneath  was 
muddy  with  grease  and  ashes, — and  the  heart  beneath  that  f 
And  the  soul  ?  God  knows. 

Then  flashed  before  his  vivid  poetic  sense  the  man  who 
had  left  him,  —  the  pure  face,  the  delicate,  sinewy  limbs,  in 
harmony  with  all  he  knew  of  beauty  or  truth.  In  his  cloudy 
fancy  he  had  pictured  a  Something  like  this.  He  had 
found  it  in  this  Mitchell,  even  when  he  idly  scoffed  at  his 
pain  :  a  Man  all-knowing,  all-seeing,  crowned  by  Nature, 
reigning,  —  the  keen  glance  of  his  eye  falling  like  a  sceptre 
on  other  men.  And  yet  his  instinct  taught  him  that  he  too 
—  He  !  He  looked  at  himself  with  sudden  loathing,  sick, 
wrung  his  hands  with  a  cry,  and  then  was  silent.  With  all 
the  phantoms  of  his  heated,  ignorant  fancy,  Wolfe  had  not 
been  vague  in  his  ambitions.  They  were  practical,  slowly 
built  up  before  him  out  of  his  knowledge  of  what  he  could 
do.  Through  years  he  had  day  by  day  made  this  hope  a 
real  thing  to  himself,  —  a  clear,  projected  figure  of  himself, 
as  he  might  become. 

Able  to  speak,  to  know  what  was  best,  to  raise  these  men 
and  women  working  at  his  side  up  with  him  :  sometimes  he 
forgot  this  defined  hope  in  the  frantic  anguish  to  escape,  — 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  73 

only  to  escape,  —  out  of  the  wet:,  the  pain,  the  'ashes,  some- 
where, anywhere,  —  only  for  one  moment  of  free  air  on  a  hill- 
side, to  lie  down  and  let  his  sick  soul  throb  itself  out  in  the 
sunshine.  But  to-night  he  panted  for  life.  The  savage 
strength  of  his  nature  was  roused  ;  his  cry  was  fierce  to 
God  for  justice. 

"  Look  at  me ! "  he  said  to  Deborah,  with  a  low,  bitter 
laugh,  striking  his  puny  chest  savagely.  "  What  am  I  worth, 
Deb  ?  Is  it  my  fault  that  I  am  no  better  ?  My  fault  ?  My 
fault?" 

He  stopped,  stung  with  a  sudden  remorse,  seeing  her 
hunchback  shape  writhing  with  sobs.  For  Deborah  was 
crying  thankless  tears,  according  to  the  fashion  of  women. 

"  God  forgi'  me,  woman  !  Things  go  harder  wi'  you  nor 
me.  It 's  a  worse  share." 

He  got  up  and  helped  her  to  rise  ;  and  they  went  dog- 
gedly down  the  muddy  street,  side  by  side. 

"  It 's  all  wrong,"  he  muttered,  slowly,  —  "  all  wrong  !  I 
dunnot  understan'.  But  it  '11  end  some  day." 

"  Come  home,  Hugh  !  "  she  said,  coaxingly ;  for  he  had 
stopped,  looking  around  bewildered. 

"  Home,  —  and  back  to  the  mill !  "  He  went  on  saying 
this  over  to  himself,  as  if  he  would  mutter  down  every  pain 
in  this  dull  despair. 

She  followed  him  through  the  fog,  her  blue  lips  chattering 
with  cold.  They  reached  the  cellar  at  last.  Old  Wolfe  had 
been  drinking  since  she  went  out,  and  had  crept  nearer  the 
door.  The  girl  Janey  slept  heavily  in  the  corner.  He  went 
up  to  her,  touching  softly  the  worn  white  arm  with  his  fin- 
gers. Some  bitterer  thought;  stung  him,  as  he  stood  there. 
He  wiped  the  drops  from  his  forehead,  and  went  into  the 
room  beyond,  livid,  trembling.  A  hope,  trifling,  perhaps, 
but  very  dear,  had  died  just  then  out  of  the  poor  puddler's 
life,  as  he  looked  at  the  sleeping,  innocent  girl,  —  some  plan 
for  the  future,  in  which  she  had  borne  a  part.  He  gave  it 
up  that  moment,  then  and  forever.  Only  a  trifle,  perhaps, 
to  us  :  his  face  grew  a  shade  paler,  —  that  was  all.  But, 
4 


74  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

somehow,  the  man's  soul,  as  God  and  the  angels  looked 
down  on  it,  never  was  the  same  afterwards. 

Deborah  followed  him  into  the  inner  room.  She  carried 
a  candle,  which  she  placed  on  the  floor,  closing  the  door 
after  her.  She  had  seen  the  look  on  his  face,  as  he  turned 
away  ;  her  own  grew  deadly.  Yet,  as  she  came  up  to  him, 
her  eyes  glowed.  He  was  seated  on  an  old  chest,  quiet, 
holding  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  Hugh  !  "  she  said,  softly. 

He  did  not  speak. 

"  Hugh,  did  hur  hear  what  the  man  said,  — him  with  the 
clear  voice  ?  Did  hur  hear  ?  Money,  money,  —  that  it  wud 
do  all?" 

He  pushed  her  away,  —  gently,  but  he  was  worn  out ;  her 
rasping  tone  fretted  him. 

"  Hugh ! " 

The  candle  flared  a  pale  yellow  light  over  the  cobwebbed 
brick  walls,  and  the  woman  standing  there.  He  looked  at 
her.  She  was  young,  in  deadly  earnest ;  her  faded  eyes, 
and  wet,  ragged  figure  caught  from  their  frantic  eagerness  a 
power  akin  to  beauty. 

"  Hugh,  it  is  true  !  Money  ull  do  it !  Oh,  Hugh,  boy, 
listen  till  me  !  He  said  it  true  !  It  is  money  !  " 

"  I  know.     Go  back  !    I  do  not  want  you  here." 

"  Hugh,  it  is  t'  last  time.     I  '11  never  worrit  hur  again." 

There  were  tears  in  her  voice  now,  but  she  choked  them 
back. 

"  Hear  till  me  only  to-night !  .If  one  of  t'  witch  people 
wud  come,  them  we  heard  of  t'  home,  and  gif  hur  all  hur 
wants,  what  then  ?  Say,  Hugh  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  money." 

Her  whisper  shrilled  through  his  brain. 

"If  one  of  t'  witch  dwarfs  wud  come  from  t'  lane  moors 
to-night,  and  gif  hur  money,  to  go  out,  —  out,  I  say,  —  out, 
lad,  where  t'  sun  shines,  and  t'  heath  grows,  and  t'  ladies 
walk  in  silken  gownds,  and  God  stays  all  t'  time,  —  where  t' 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  75 

man  lives  that  talked  to  us  to-night,  —  Hugh  knows, — 
Hugh  could  walk  there  like  a  king ! " 

He  thought  the  woman  mad,  tried  to  check  her,  but  she 
went  on,  fierce  in  her  eager  haste. 

"  If  /  were  t'  witch  dwarf,  if  I  had  t'  money,  wud  hur 
thank  me  ?  Wud  hur  take  me  out  o'  this  place  wid  hur  and 
Janey  ?  I  wud  not  come  into  the  gran'  house  hur  wud  build, 
to  vex  hur  wid  t'  hunch,  —  only  at  night,  when  t'  shadows 
were  dark,  stand  far  off  to  see  hur." 

"  Pocfr  Deb  !  poor  Deb  ! "  he  said,  soothingly. 

"  It  is  here,"  she  said,  suddenly  jerking  into  his  hand  a 
small  roll.  "  I  took  it !  I  did  it !  I  shall  be  hanged  !  I 
shall  be  burnt  in  hell,  if  anybody  knows  I  took  it !  Me,  me  ! 
not  hur  !  Out  of  his  pocket,  as  he  leaned  against  t'  bricks. 
Hur  knows  ?  " 

She  thrust  it  into  his  hand,  and  then,  her  errand  done, 
began  to  gather  chips  together  to  make  a  fire,  choking  down 
hysteric  sobs. 

"  Has  it  come  to  this  ?  " 

That  was  all  he  said.  The  Welsh  Wolfe  blood  was 
honest.  The  roll  was  a  small  green  pocket-book  containing 
one  or  two  gold  pieces,  and  a  check  for  an  incredible 
amount,  as  it  seemed  to  the  poor  puddler.  He  laid  it  down, 
hiding  his  face  again  in  his  hands. 

"  Hugh,  don't  be  angry  wud  me  !  It 's  only  poor  Deb,  — 
hur  knows  ? " 

He  took  the  long  skinny  fingers  kindly  in  his. 

"  Angry  ?  God  help  me,  no !  Let  me  sleep.  I  am 
tired." 

He  threw  himself  heavily  down  on  the  wooden  bench, 
stunned  with  pain  and  weariness.  She  brought  some  old 
rags  to  cover  him. 

It  was  late  on  Sunday  evening  before  he  awoke.  I  tell 
God's  truth,  when  I  say  he  had  then  no  thought  of  keeping 
this  money.  Deborah  had  hid  it  in  his  pocket.  He  found 
it  there.  She  watched  him  eagerly,  as  he  took  it  out. 

"  I  must  gif  it  to  him,"  he  said,  reading  her  face. 


76  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

"  Hur  knows,"  she  said  with  a  bitter  sigh  of  disappoint- 
ment. "  But  it  is  hur  right  to  keep  it." 

His  right !  The  word  struck  him.  Doctor  May  had  used 
the  same.  He  washed  himself,  and  went  out  to  find  this 
man  Mitchell.  His  right !  Why  did  this  chance  word 
cling  to  him  so  obstinately  ?  Do  you  hear  the  fierce  devils 
whisper  in  his  ear,  as  he  went  slowly  down  the  darkening 
street  ? 

The  evening  came  on,  slow  and  calm.  He  seated  him- 
self at  the  end  of  an  alley  leading  into  one  of  the  larger 
streets.  His  brain  was  clear  to-night,  keen,  intent,  master- 
ing. It  would  not  start  back,  cowardly,  from  any  hellish 
temptation,  but  meet  it  face  to  face.  Therefore  the  great 
temptation  of  his  life  came  to  him  veiled  by  no  sophistry, 
but  bold,  defiant,  owning  its  own  vile  name,  trusting  to  one 
bold  blow  for  victory. 

He  did  not  deceive  himself.  Theft !  That  was  it.  At 
first  the  word  sickened  him  ;  then  he  grappled  with  it. 
Sitting  there  on  a  broken  cart-wheel,  the  fading  day,  the 
noisy  groups,  the  church-bells'  tolling  passed  before  him 
like  a  panorama,  while  the  sharp  struggle  went  on  within. 
This  money  !  He  took  it  out,  and  looked  at  it.  If  he  gave 
it  back,  what  then  ?  He  was  going  to  be  cool  about  it. 

People  going  by  to  church  saw  only  a  sickly  mill-boy 
watching  them  quietly  at  the  alley's  mouth.  They  did  not 
know  that  he  was  mad,  or  they  would  not  have  gone  by  so 
quietly  :  jnad  with  hunger  ;  stretching  out  his  hands  to  the 
world,  that  had  given  so  much  to  them,  for  leave  to  live 
the  life  God  meant  him  to  live.  His  soul  within  him  was 
smothering  to  death  ;  he  wanted  so  much,  thought  so  much, 
and  knew  —  nothing.  There  was  nothing  of  which  he  was 
certain,  except  the  mill  and  things  there.  Of  God  and 
heaven  he  had  heard  so  little,  that  they  were  to  him  what 
fairy-land  is  to  a  child  :  something  real,  but  not  here  ;  very 
far  off.  His  brain,  greedy,  dwarfed,  full  of  thwarted  energy 
and  unused  powers,  questioned  these  men  and  women  going 
by,  coldly,  bitterly,  that  night.  Was  it  not  his  right  to  live 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  77 

asjthey,  —  a  pure  life,  a  good,  true-hearted  life,  full  of  beauty 
ancTkind  words  ?  He  only  wanted  to  know  how  to  use  the 
strength  within  him.  His  heart  warmed,  as  he  thought  of 
it.  He  suffered  himself  to  think  of  it  longer.  If  he  took 
the  money  ? 

Then  he  saw  himself  as  he  might  be,  strong,  helpful, 
kindly.  The  night  crept  on,  as  this  one  image  slowly 
evolved  itself  from  the  crowd  of  other  thoughts  and  stood 
triumphant.  He  looked  at  it.  As  he  might  be  !  What 
wonder,  if  it  blinded  him  to  delirium,  —  the  madness  that 
underlies  all  revolution,  all  progress,  and  all  fall  ? 

You  laugh  at  the  shallow  temptation  ?  You  see  the  error 
underlying  its  argument  so  clearly,  —  that  to  him  a  true  life 
was  one  of  full  development  rather  than  self-restraint  ?  that 
he  was  deaf  to  the  higher  tone  in  a  cry  of  voluntary  suffer- 
ing for  truth's  sake  than  in  the  fullest  flow  of  spontaneous 
harmony  ?  I  do  not  plead  his  cause.  I  only  want  to  show 
you  the  mote  in  my  brother's  eye  :  then  you  can  see  clearly 
to  take  it  out. 

The  money,  —  there  it  lay  on  his  knee,  a  little  blotted  slip 
of  paper,  nothing  in  itself ;  used  to  raise  him  out  of  the  pit ; 
something  straight  from  God's  hand.  A  thief !  Well,  what 
was  it  to  be  a  thief  ?  He  met  the  question  at  last  face  to 
face,  wiping  the  clammy  drops  of  sweat  from  his  forehead. 
God  made  this  money  —  the  fresh  air,  too  —  for  his  chil- 
dren's use.  He  never  made  the  difference  between  poor  and 
rich.  The  Something  who  looked  down  on  him  that  mo- 
ment through  the  cool  gray  sky  had  a  kindly  face,  he  knew, 
—  loved  his  children  alike.  Oh,  he  knew  that ! 

There  were  times  when  the  soft  floods  of  color  in  the  crim- 
son and  purple  flames,  or  the  clear  depth  of  amber  in  the 
water  below  the  bridge,  had  somehow  given  him  a  glimpse 
of  another  world  than  this,  —  of  an  infinite  depth  of  beauty 
and  of  quiet  somewhere,  —  somewhere,  —  a  depth  of  quiet 
and  rest  and  love.  Looking  up  now,  it  became  strangely 
real.  The  sun  had  sunk  quite  below  the  hills,  but  his  last 
rays  struck  upward,  touching  the  zenith.  The  fog  had  risen, 


78  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

and  the  town  and  river  were  steeped  in  its  thick,  gray 
damp  ;  but  overhead,  the  sun-touched  smoke-clouds  opened 
like  a  cleft  ocean,  —  shifting,  rolling  seas  of  crimson  mist, 
waves  of  billowy  silver  veined  with  blood-scarlet,  inner 
depths  unfathomable  of  glancing  light.  Wolfe's  artist-eye 
grew  drunk  with  color.  The  gates  of  that  other  world  ! 
Fading,  flashing  before  him  now  !  What,  in  that  world  of 
Beauty,  Content,  and  Right,  were  the  petty  laws,  the  mine 
and  thine,  of  mill-owners  and  mill-hands  ? 

A  consciousness  of  power  stirred  within  him.  He  stood 
up.  A  man,  —  he  thought,  stretching  out  his  hands,  —  free 
to  work,  to  live,  to  love  !  Free  !  His  right !  He  folded  the 
scrap  of  paper  in  his  hand.  As  his  nervous  fingers  took  it 
in,  limp  and  blotted,  so  his  soul  took  in  the  mean  tempta- 
tion, lapped  it  in  fancied  rights,  in  dreams  of  improved  ex- 
istences, drifting  and  endless  as  the  cloud-seas  of  color. 
Clutching  it,  as  if  the  tightness  of  his  hold  would  strengthen 
his  sense  of  possession,  he  went  aimlessly  down  the  street. 
It  was  his  watch  at  the  mill.  He  need  not  go,  need  never  go 
again,  thank  God  !  —  shaking  off  the  thought  with  unspeak- 
able loathing. 

Shall  I  go  over  the  history  of  the  hours  of  that  night  ? 
how  the  man  wandered  from  one  to  another  of  his  old 
haunts,  with  a  half-consciousness  of  bidding  them  farewell, 
—  lanes  and  alleys  and  back-yards  where  the  mill-hands 
lodged,  —  noting,  with  a  new  eagerness,  the  filth  and  drunk- 
enness, the  pig-pens,  the  ash-heaps  covered  with  potato- 
skins,  the  bloated,  pimpled  women  at  the  doors,  —  with  a 
new  disgust,  a  new  sense  of  sudden  triumph,  and,  under  all, 
a  new,  vague  dread,  unknown  before,  smothered  down,  kept 
under,  but  still  there  ?  It  left  him  but  once  during  the 
night,  when,  for  the  second  time  in  his  life,  he  entered  a 
church.  It  was  a  sombre  Gothic  pile,  where  the  stained 
light  lost  itself  in  far-retreating  arches  ;  built  to  meet  the 
requirements  and  sympathies  of  a  far  other  class  than 
Wolfe's.  Yet  it  touched,  moved  him  uncontrollably.  The 
distances,  the  shadows,  the  still,  marble  figures,  the  mass  of 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  79 

silent,  kneeling  worshippers,  the  mysterious  music,  thrilled, 
lifted  his  soul  with  a  wonderful  pain.  Wolfe  forgot  himself, 
forgot  the  new  life  he  was  going  to  live,  the  mean  terror 
gnawing  underneath.  The  voice  of  the  speaker  strength- 
ened the  charm  ;  it  was  clear,  feeling,  full,  strong.  An  old 
man,  who  had  lived  much,  suffered  much  ;  whose  brain  was 
keenly  alive,  dominant ;  whose  heart  was  summer-warm 
with  charity.  He  taught  it  to-night.  He  held  up  Humanity 
in  its  grand  total ;  showed  the  great  world-cancer  to  his 
people.  Who  could  show  it  better  ?  He  was  a  Christian 
reformer ;  he  had  studied  the  age  thoroughly  ;  his  outlook 
at  man  had  been  free,  world-wide,  over  all  time.  His  faith 
stood  sublime  upon  the  Rock  of  Ages  ;  his  fiery  zeal  guided 
vast  schemes  by  which  the  Gospel  was  to  be  preached  to  all 
nations.  How  did  he  preach  it  to-night  ?  In  burning, 
light-laden  words  he  painted  Jesus,  the  incarnate  Life,  Love, 
the  universal  Man  :  words  that  became  reality  in  the  lives 
of  these  people,  —  that  lived  again  in  beautiful  words  and 
actions,  trifling,  but  heroic.  Sin,  as  he  defined  it,  was  a 
real  foe  to  them  ;  their  trials,  temptations,  were  his.  His 
words  passed  far  over  the  furnace-tender's  grasp,  toned  to 
suit  another  class  of  culture  ;  they  sounded  in  his  ears  a 
very  pleasant  song  in  an  unknown  tongue.  He  meant  to 
cure  this  world-cancer  with  a  steady  eye  that  had  never 
glared  with  hunger,  and  a  hand  that  neither  poverty  nor 
strychnine- whiskey  had  taught  to  shake.  In  this  morbid, 
distorted  heart  of  the  Welsh  puddler  he  had  failed. 

Eighteen  centuries  ago,  the  Master  of  this  man  tried  re- 
form in  the  streets  of  a  city  as  crowded  and  vile  as  this,  and 
did  not  fail.  His  disciple,  showing  Him  to-night  to  cultured 
hearers,  showing  the  clearness  of  the*  God-power  acting 
through  Him,<shrank  back  from  one  coarse  fact;  that  in 
birth  and  habit  the  man  Christ  was  thrown  up  from  the 
lowest  of  the  people  :  his  flesh,  their  flesh  ;  their  blood,  his 
blood  ;  tempted  like  them,  to  brutalize  day  by  day  ;  to  lie, 
to  steal :  the  actual  slime  and  want  of  their  hourly  life,  and 
the  wine-press  he  trod  alone. 


8o  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

Yet,  is  there  no  meaning  in  this  perpetually  covered 
truth  ?  If  the  son  of  the  carpenter  had  stood  in  the  church 
that  night,  as  he  stood  with  the  fishermen  and  harlots  by 
the  sea  of  Galilee,  before  His  Father  and  their  Father,  de- 
spised and  rejected  of  men,  without  a  place  to  lay  His  head, 
wounded  for  their  iniquities,  bruised  for  their  transgressions, 
would  not  that  hungry  mill-boy  at  least,  in  the  back  seat, 
have  "  known  the  man  "  ?  That  Jesus  did  not  stand  there. 

Wolfe  rose  at  last,  and  turned  from  the  church  down  the 
'street.  He  looked  up  ;  the  night  had  come  on  foggy,  damp ; 
the  golden  mists  had  vanished,  and  the  sky  lay  dull  and 
ash-colored.  He  wandered  again  aimlessly  down  the  street, 
idly  wondering  what  had  become  of  the  cloud-sea  of  crim- 
son and  scarlet.  The  irial-day  of  this  man's  life  was  over, 
and  he  had  lost  the  victory.  What  followed  was  mere  drift- 
ing circumstance,  —  a  quicker  walking  over  the  path,  —  that 
was  all.  Do  you  want  to  hear  the  end  of  it  ?  You  wish  me 
to  make  a  tragic  story  out  of  it  ?  Why.  in  the  police-reports 
of  the  morning  paper  you  can  find  a  dozen  such  tragedies  ; 
hints  of  shipwrecks  unlike  any  that  ever  befell  on  the  high 
seas  ;  hints  that  here  a  power  was  lost  to  heaven,  —  that 
there  a  soul  went  down  where  no  tide  can  ebb  or  flow. 
Commonplace  enough  the  hints  are,  —  jocose  sometimes, 
done  up  in  rhyme. 

Doctor  May,  a  month  after  the  night  I  have  told  you  of, 
was  reading  to  his  wife  at  breakfast  from  this  fourth  column 
of  the  morning-paper  :  an  unusual  thing,  —  these  police-re- 
ports not  being,  in  general,  choice  reading  for  ladies  ;  but  it 
was  only  one  item  he  read. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  !  You  remember  that  man  I  told  you  of, 
that  we  saw  at  Kirby's  mill  ?  —  that  was  arrested  for  robbing 
Mitchell  ?  Here  he  is  ;  just  listen  :  — '  Circuit  Court.  Judge 
Day.  Hugh  Wolfe,  operative  in.  Kirby  &  John's  Loudon 
Mills.  Charge,  grand  larceny.  Sentence,  nineteen  years 
hard  labor  in  penitentiary.'  —  Scoundrel  !  Serves  him 
right !  After  all  our  kindness  that  night !  Picking  Mitchell's 
pocket  at  the  very  time  ! " 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  8 1 

His  wife  said  something  about  the  ingratitude  of  that 
kind  of  people,  and  then  they  began  to  talk  of  something 
else. 

Nineteen  years  !  How  easy  that  was  to  read  !  What  a 
simple  word  for  Judge  Day  to  utter  !  Nineteen  years  ! 
Half  a  lifetime  ! 

Hugh  Wolfe  sat  on  the  window-ledge  of  his  cell,  looking 
out.  His  ankles  were  ironed.  Not  usual  in  such  cases; 
but  he  had  made  two  desperate  efforts  to  escape.  "  Well," 
as  Haley,  the  jailer,  said,  "  small  blame  to  him  !  Nineteen 
years'  imprisonment  was  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  look  forward 
to."  Haley  was  very  good-natured  about  it,  though  Wolfe 
had  fought  him  savagely. 

"  When  he  was  first  caught,"  the  jailer  said  afterwards,  in 
telling  the  story,  "  before  the  trial,  the  fellow  was  cut  down 
at  once,  —  laid  there  on  that  pallet  like  a  dead  man,  with  his 
hands  over  his  eyes.  Never  saw  a  man  so  cut  down  in  my  life. 
Time  of  the  trial,  too,  came  the  queerest  dodge  of  any  custom- 
er I  ever  had.  Would  choose  no  lawyer.  Judge  gave  him 
one,  of  course.  Gibson  it  was.  He  tried  to  prove  the  fellow 
crazy  ;  but  it  would  n't  go.  Thing  was  plain  as  daylight : 
check  found  on  him.  'T  was  a  hard  sentence,  —  all  the 
law  allows  ;  but  it  was  for  'xample's  sake.  These  mill- 
hands  are  gettin'  onbearable.  When  the  sentence  was  read, 
he  just  looked  up,  and  said  the  money  was  his  by  rights, 
and  that  all  the  world  had  gone  wrong.  That  night,  after 
the  trial,  a  gentleman  came  to  see  him  here,  name  of 
Mitchell,  —  him  as  he  stole*  from.  Talked  to  him  for  an 
hour.  Thought  he  came  for  curiosity,  like.  After  he  was 
gone,  thought  Wolfe  was  remarkable  quiet,  and  went  into 
his  cell.  Found  him  very  low  ;  bed  all  bloody.  Doctor 
said  he  had  been  bleeding  at  the  lungs.  He  was  as  weak 
as  a  cat ;  yet,  if  ye  '11  b'lieve  me,  he  tried  to  get  a-past  me 
and  get  out.  I  just  carried  him  like  a  baby,  and  threw  him 
on  the  pallet.  Three  days  after,  he  tried  it  again  :  that 
time  reached  the  wall.  Lord  help  you !  he  fought  like  a 
tiger,  —  giv'  some  terrible  blows.  Fightin'  for  life,  you  see ; 
4*  F 


82  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

for  he  can't  live  long,  shut  up  in  the  stone  crib  down  yon- 
der. Qot  a  death-cough  now.  'T  took  two  of  us  to  bring 
him  down  that  day ;  so  I  just  put  the  irons  on  his  feet. 
There  he  sits,  in  there.  Coin'  to-morrow,  with  a  batch 
more  of  'em.  That  woman,  hunchback,  tried  with  him,  — 
you  remember  ?  —  she 's  only  got  three  years.  'Complice. 
But  she^s  a  woman,  you  know.  He 's  been  quiet  ever  since 
I  put  on  irons  :  giv'  up,  I  suppose.  Looks  white,  sick- 
lookin'.  It  acts  different  on  'em,  bein'  sentenced.  Most  of 
'em  gets  reckless,  devilish-like.  Some  prays  awful,  and 
sings  them  vile  songs  of  the  mills,  all  in  a  breath.  That 
woman,  now,  she  's  desperY.  Been  beggin'  to  see  Hugh, 
as  she  calls  him,  for  three  days.  I  'm  a-goin'  to  let  her  in. 
She  don't  go  with  him.  Here  she  is  in  this  next  cell.  I  'm 
a-goin'  now  to  let  her  in." 

He  let  her  in.  Wolfe  did  not  see  her.  She  crept  into  a 
corner  of  the  cell,  and  stood  watching  him.  He  was  scratch- 
ing the  iron  bars  of  the  window  with  a  piece  of  tin  which  he 
had  picked  up,  with  an  idle,  uncertain,  vacant  stare,  just  as 
a  child  or  idiot  would  do. 

"  Tryin'  to  get  out,  old  boy  ?  "  laughed  Haley.  "  Them 
irons  will  need  a  crowbar  beside  your  tin,  before  you  can 
open  'em." 

Wolfe  laughed,  too,  in  a  senseless  way. 

"  I  think  I  '11  get  out,"  he  said. 

"  I  believe  his  brain 's  touched,"  said  Haley,  when  he 
came  out. 

The  puddler  scraped  away  with  the  tin  for  half  an  hour. 
Still  Deborah  did  not  speak.  At  last  she  ventured  nearer, 
and  touched  his  arm. 

"  Blood  ? "  she  said,  looking  at  some  spots  on  his  coat 
with  a  shudder. 

He  looked  up  at  her.  "  Why,  Deb  ! "  he  said,  smiling,  — 
such  a  bright,  boyish  smile,  that  it  went  to  poor  Deborah's 
heart  directly,  and  she  sobbed  and  cried  out  loud. 

"  Oh,  Hugh,  lad  !  Hugh  !  dunnot  look  at  me,  when  it  wur 
my  fault  !  To  think  I  brought  hur  to  it !  And  I  loved  hur 
so!  Oh,  lad,  I  dud!" 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  83 

The  confession,  even  in  this  wretch,  came  with  the  wo- 
man's blush  through  the  sharp  cry. 

He  did  not  seem  to  hear  her,  —  scraping  away  diligently 
at  the  bars  with  the  bit  of  tin. 

Was  he  going  mad  ?  She  peered  closely  into  his  face. 
Something  she  saw  there  made  her  draw  suddenly  back,  — 
something  which  Haley  had  not  seen,  that  lay  beneath  the 
pinched,  vacant  look  it  had  caught  since  the  trial,  or  the 
curious  gray  shadow  that  rested  on  it.  That  gray  shadow, 
—  yes,  she  knew  what  that  meant.  She  had  often  seen  it 
creeping  over  women's  faces  for  months,  who  died  at  last  of 
slow  hunger  or  consumption.  That  meant  deatn,  distant, 
lingering  :  but  this  —  Whatever  it  was  the  woman  saw, 
or  thought  she  saw,  used  as  she  was  to  crime  and  misery, 
seemed  to  make  her  sick  with  a  new  horror.  Forgetting 
her  fear  of  him,  she  caught  his  shoulders,  and  looked  keenly, 
steadily,  into  his  eyes. 

"  Hugh  !  "  she  cried,  in  a  desperate  whisper,  —  "  oh,  boy, 
not  that !  for  God's  sake,  not  that!" 

The  vacant  laugh  went  off  his  face,  and  he  answered  her 
in  a  muttered  word  or  two  that  drove  her  away.  Yet  the 
words  were  kindly  enough.  Sitting  there  on  his  pallet,  she 
cried  silently  a  hopeless  sort  of  tears,  but  did  not  speak 
again.  The  man  looked  up  furtively  at  her  now  and  then. 
Whatever  his  own  trouble  was,  her  distress  vexed  him  with 
a  momentary  sting. 

It  was  market-day.  The  narrow  window  of  the  jail 
looked  down  directly  on  the  carts  and  wagons  drawn  up  in 
a  long  line,  where  they  had  unloaded.  He  could  see,  too, 
and  hear  distinctly  the  clink  of  money  as  it  changed  hands, 
the  busy  crowd  of  whites  and  blacks  shoving,  pushing  one 
another,  and  the  chaffering  and  swearing  at  the  stalls. 
Somehow,  the  sound,  more  than  anything  else  had  done, 
wakened  him  up,  —  made  the  whole  real  to  him.  He  was 
done  with  the  world  and  the  business  of  it.  He  let  the  tin 
fall,  and  looked  out,  pressing  his  face  close  to  the  rusty  bars. 
How  thev  crowded  and  pushed  !  And  he,  —  he  should. 


84  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

never  walk  that  pavement  again  !  There  came  Neff  San- 
ders, one  of  the  feeders  at  the  mill,  with  a  basket  on  his 
arm.  Sure  enough,  Neff  was  married  the  other  week.  He 
whistled,  hoping  he  would  look  up  ;  but  he  did  not.  He 
wondered  if  Neff  remembered  he  was  there,  —  if  any  of  the 
boys  thought  of  him  up  there,  and  thought  that  he  never 
was  to  go  down  that  old  cinder-road  again.  Never  again  ! 
He  had  not  quite  understood  it  before  ;  but  now  he  did. 
Not  for  days  or  years,  but  never  !  — that  was  it. 

How  clear  the  light  fell  on  that  stall  in  front  of  the  mar- 
ket !  and  how  like  a  picture  it  was,  the  dark-green  heaps  of 
corn,  and  the  crimson  beets,  and  golden  melons  !  There 
was  another  with  game :  how  the  light  flickered  on  that 
pheasant's  breast,  with  the  purplish  blood  dripping  over  the 
brown  feathers  !  He  could  see  the  red  shining  of  the  drops, 
it  was  so  near.  In  one  minute  he  could  be  down  there.  It 
was  just  a  step.  So  easy,  as  it  seemed,  so  natural  to  go  ! 
Yet  it  could  never  be  —  not  in  all  the  thousands  of  years  to 
come  —  that  he  should  put  his  foot  on  that  street  again  ! 
He  thought  of  himself  with  a  sorrowful  pity,  as  of  some  one 
else.  There  was  a  dog  down  in  the  market,  walking  after 
his  master  with  such  a  stately,  grave  look !  —  only  a  dog, 
yet  he  could  go  backwards  and  forwards  just  as  he  pleased  : 
he  had  good  luck  !  Why,  the  very  vilest  cur,  yelping  there 
in  the  gutter,  had  not  lived  his  life,  had  been  free  to  act  out 
whatever  thought  God  had  put  into  his  brain  ;  while  he  — 
No,  he  would  not  think  of  that !  He  tried  to  put  the  thought 
away,  and  to  listen  to  a  dispute  between  a  countryman  and 
a  woman  about  some  meat ;  but  it  would  come  back.  He, 
what  had  he  done  to  bear  this  ? 

Then  came  the  sudden  picture  of  what  might  have  been, 
and  now.  He  knew  what  it  was  to  be  in  the  penitentiary, 
—  how  it  went  with  men  there.  He  knew  how  in  these  long 
years  he  should  slowly  die,  but  not  until  soul  and  body  had 
become  corrupt  and  rotten,  —  how,  when  he  came  out,  if  he 
lived  to  come,  even  the  lowest  of  the  mill-hands  would  jeer 
him,  —  how  his  hands  would  be  weak,  and  his  bjain  sense- 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  85 

less  and  stupid.  He  believed  he  was  almost  that  now. 
He  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  with  a  puzzled,  weary  look. 
It  ached,  his  head,  with  thinking.  He  tried  to  quiet  him- 
self. It  was  only  right,  perhaps  ;  he  had  done  wrong.  But 
was  there  right_or  wrong  for  such  as  he  ?  What  was  right  ? 
And  who  had  ever  taught  him  ?  He  thrust  the  whole  mat- 
ter away.  A  dark,  cold  quiet  crept  through  his  brain.  It 
was  all  wrong  ;  but  let  it  be  !  It  was  nothing  to  him  more 
than  the  others.  Let  it  be  ! 

The  door  grated,  as  Haley  opened  it. 

"  Come,  my  woman  !  Must  lock  up  for  t'  night.  Come, 
stir  yerself ! " 

She  went  up  and  took  Hugh's  hand. 

"  Good-night,  Deb,"  he  said,  carelessly. 

She  had  not  hoped  he  would  say  more  ;  but  the  tired  pain 
on  her  mouth  just  then  was  bitterer  than  death.  She  took 
his  passive  hand  and  kissed  it 

"  Hur  '11  never  see  Deb  again  ! "  she  ventured,  her  lips 
growing  colder  and  more  bloodless. 

What  did  she  say  that  for  ?  Did  he  not  know  it  ?  Yet 
he  would  not  be  impatient  with  poor  old  Deb.  She  had 
trouble  of  her  own,  as  well  as  he. 

"  No,  never  again,"  he  said,  trying  to  be  cheerful. 

She  stood  just  a  moment,  looking  at  him.  Do  you  laugh 
at  her,  standing  there,  with  her  hunchback,  her  rags,  her 
bleared,  withered  face,  and  the  great  despised  love  tugging 
at  her  heart  ? 

"  Come  you  !  "  called  Haley,  impatiently. 

She  did  not  move. 

"  Hugh  ! "  she  whispered. 

It  was  to  be  her  last  word.     What  was  it  ? 

"  Hugh,  boy,  not  THAT  !  " 

He  did  not  answer.  She  wrung  her  hands,  trying  to  be 
silent,  looking  in  his  face  in  an  agony  of  entreaty.  He 
smiled  again,  kindly. 

"  It  is  best,  Deb.     I  cannot  bear  to  be  hurted  any  more." 

"  Hur  knows,"  she  said,  humbly. 


86  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

"  Tell  my  father  good-by  ;  and  —  and  kiss  little  Janey."  ' 

She  nodded,  saying  nothing,  looked  in  his  face  again,  and 
went  out  of  the  door.  As  she  went,  she  staggered. 

"  Drinkin'  to-day  ?  "  broke  out  Haley,  pushing  her  before 
him.  "Where  the  Devil  did  you  get  it?  Here,  in  with 
ye  !  "  and  he  shoved  her  into  her  cell,  next  to  Wolfe's,  and 
shut  the  door. 

Along  the  wall  of  her  cell  there  was  a  crack  low  down  by 
the  floor,  through  which  she  could  see  the  light  from 
Wolfe's.  She  had  discovered  it  days  before.  She  hurried 
in  now,  and,  kneeling  down  by  it,  listened,  hoping  to  hear 
some  sound.  Nothing  but  the  rasping  of  the  tin  on  the 
bars.  He  was  at  his  old  amusement  again.  Something  in 
the  noise  jarred  on  her  ear,  for  she  shivered  as  she  heard  it 
Hugh  rasped  away  at  the  bars.  A  dull  old  bit  of  tin,  not 
fit  to  cut  korl  with. 

He  looked  out  of  the  window  again.  People  were  leaving 
the  market  now.  A  tall  mulatto  girl,  following  her  mistress, 
her  basket  on  her  head,  crossed  the  street  just  below,  and 
looked  up.  She  was  laughing  ;  but,  when  she  caught  sight 
of  the  haggard  face  peering  out  through  the  bars,  suddenly 
grew  grave,  and  hurried  by.  A  free,  firm  step,  a  clear-cut 
olive  face,  with  a  scarlet  turban  tied  on  one  side,  dark, 
shining  eyes,  and  on  the  head  the  basket  poised,  filled  with 
fruit  and  flowers,  under  which  the  scarlet  turban  and  bright 
eyes  looked  out  half-shadowed.  The  picture  caught  his  eye. 
It  was  good  to  see  a  face  like  that.  He  would  try  to-mor- 
row, and  cut  one  like  it.  To-morrow  !  He  threw  down  the 
tin,  trembling,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  When 
he  looked  up  again,  the  daylight  was  gone. 

Deborah,  crouching  near  by  on  the  other  side  of  the 
wall,  heard  no  noise.  He  sat  on  the  side  of  the  low  pallet, 
thinking.  Whatever  was  the  mystery  which  the  woman  had 
seen  on  his  face,  it  came  out  now  slowly,  in  the  dark  there, 
and  became  fixed,  —  a  something  never  seen  on  his  face  be- 
fore. The  evening  was  darkening  fast.  The  market  had 
been  over  for  an  hour  ;  the  rumbling  of  the  carts  over  the 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  87 

pavement  grew  more  infrequent :  he  listened  to  each,  as  it 
passed,  because  he  thought  it  was  to  be  for  the  last  time. 
For  the  same  reason,  it  was,  I  suppose,  that  he  strained  his 
eyes  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  each  passer-by,  wondering  who 
they  were,  what  kind  of  homes  they  were  going  to,  if  they 
had  children,  —  listening  eagerly  to  every  chance  word  in 
the  street,  as  if  —  (God  be  merciful  to  the  man  !  what 
strange  fancy  was  this  ?)  —  as  if  he  never  should  hear  hu- 
man voices  again. 

It  was  quite  dark  at  last.  The  street  was  a  lonely  one. 
The  last  passenger,  he  thought,  was  gone.  Nq,  —  there 
was  a  quick  step  :  Joe  Hill,  lighting  the  lamps.  Joe  was  a 
good  old  chap  ;  never  passed  a  fellow  without  some  joke 
or  other.  He  remembered  once  seeing  the  place  where  he 
lived  with  his  wife.  "  Granny  Hill"  the  boys  called  her. 
Bedridden  she  was  ;  but  so  kind  as  Joe  was  to  her  1  kept 
the  room  so  clean !  —  and  the  old  woman,  when  he  was 
there,  was  laughing  at  "  some  of  t'  lad's  foolishness."  The 
step  was  far  down  the  street ;  but  he  could  see  him  place 
the  ladder,  run  up,  and  light  the  gae.  A  longing  seized  him 
to  be  spoken  to  once  more. 

"  Joe  !  "  he  called  out  of  the  grating.  "  Good-by, 
Joe  I  » 

The  old  man  stopped  a  moment,  listening  uncertainly ; 
then  hurried  on.  The  prisoner  thrust  his  hand  out  of  the 
window,  and  called  again,  louder  ;  but  Joe  was  too  far  down 
the  street.  It  was  a  little  thing  ;  but  it  hurt  him,  —  this  dis- 
appointment. 

"  Good-by,  Joe  !  "  he  called,  sorrowfully  enough. 

"  Be  quiet ! "  said  one  of  the  jailers,  passing  the  door, 
striking  on  it  with  his  club. 

Oh,  that  was  the  last,  was  it  ? 

There  was  an  inexpressible  bitterness  on  his  face,  as  he 
lay  down  on  the  bed,  taking  the  bit  of  tin,  which  he  had 
rasped  to  a  tolerable  degree  of  sharpness,  in  his  hand,  —  to 
play  with,  it  may  be.  He  bared  his  arms,  looking  intently  at 
their  corded  veins  and  sinews.  Deborah,  listening  in  the 


88  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

next  cell,  heard  a  slight  clicking  sound,  often  repeated.  She 
shut  her  lips  tightly,  that  she  might  not  scream  ;  the  cold 
drops  of  sweat  broke  over  her,  in  her  dumb  agony. 

"  Hur  knows  best,"  she  muttered  at  last,  fiercely  clutching 
the  boards  where  she  lay. 

If  she  could  have  seen  Wolfe,  there  was  nothing  about 
him  to  frighten  her.  He  lay  quite  still,  his  arms  out- 
stretched, looking  at  the  pearly  stream  of  moonlight  coming 
into  the  window.  I  think  in  that  one  hour  that  came  then 
he  lived  back  over  all  the  years  that  had  gone  before. 
I  think  that  all  the  low,  vile  life,  all  his  wrongs,  all  his 
starved  hopes,  came  then,  and  stung  him  with  a  farewell 
poison  that  made  him  sick  unto  death.  He  made  neither 
moan  nor  cry,  only  turned  his  worn  face  now  and  then  to 
the  pure  light,  that  seemed  so  far  off,  as  one  that  said, 
"  How  long,  O  Lord  ?  how  long  ?  " 

The  hour  was  over  at  last.  The  .moon,  passing  over  her 
nightly  path,  slowly  came  nearer,  and  threw  the  light  across 
his  bed  on  his  feet.  He  watched  it  steadily,  as  it  crept  up, 
inch  by  inch,  slowly.  Ittseemed  to  him  to  carry  with  it  a 
great  silence.  He  had  been  so  hot  and  tired  there  always 
in  the  mills  !  The  years  had  been  so  fierce  and  cruel ! 
There  was  coming  now  quiet  and  coolness  and  sleep.  His 
tense  limbs  relaxed,  and  settled  in  a  calm  languor.  The 
blood  ran  fainter  and  slow  from  his  heart.  He  did  not 
think  now  with  a  savage  anger  of  what  might  be  and  was 
not ;  he  was  conscious  only  of  deep  stillness  creeping  over 
him.  At  first  he  saw  a  sea  of  faces  :  tne  mill-men,  —  women 
he  had  known,  drunken  and  bloated,  —  Janey's  timid  and 
pitiful,  —  poor  old  Debs  :  then  they  floated  together  like  a 
mist,  and  faded  away,  leaving  only  the  clear,  pearly  moon- 
light. 

Whether,  as  the  pure  light  crept  up  the  stretched-out 
figure,  it  brought  with  it  calm  and  peace,  who  shall  say  ? 
His  dumb  soul  was  alone  with  God  in  judgment.  A  Voice 
may  have  spoken  for  it  from  far-off  Calvary,  "  Father,  for- 
give them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do  ! "  Who  dare 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  89 

say  ?  Fainter  and  fainter  the  heart  rose  and  fell,  slower  and 
slower  the  moon  floated  from  behind  a  cloud,  until,  when  at 
last  its  full  tide  of  white  splendor  swept  over  the  cell,  it 
seemed  to  wrap  and  fold  into  a  deeper  stillness  the  dead 
figure  that  never  should  move  again.  Silence  deeper  than 
the  Night !  Nothing  that  moved,  save  the  black,  nauseous 
stream  of  blood  dripping  slowly  from  the  pallet  to  the  floor  ! 

There  was  outcry  and  crowd'  enough  in  the  cell  the  next 
day.  The  coroner  and  his  jury,  the  local  editors,  Kirby 
himself,  and  boys  with  their  hands  thrust  knowingly  into 
their  pockets  anfl  heads  on  one  side,  jammed  into  the  cor- 
ners. Coming  and  going  all  day.  Only  one  woman.  She 
came  late,  and  outstayed  them  all.  A  Quaker,  or  Friend, 
as  they  call  themselves.  I  think  this  woman  was  known 
by  that  name  in  heaven.  A  homely  body,  coarsely  dressed 
in  gray  and  white.  Deborah  (for  Haley  had  let  her  in) 
took  notice  of  her.  She  watched  them  all  —  sitting  on  the 
end  of  the  pallet,  holding  his  head  in  her  arms  —  with  the 
ferocity  of  a  watch-dog,  if  any  of  them  touched  the  body. 
There  was  no  meekness,  no  sorrow,  in  her  face  ;  the  stuff 
out  of  which  murderers  are  made,  instead.  All  the  time 
Haley  and  the  woman  were  laying  straight  the  limbs  and 
cleaning  the  cell,  Deborah  sat  still,  keenly  watching  the 
Quaker's  face.  Of  all  the  crowd  there  that  day,  this  woman 
alone  had  not  spoken  to  her,  —  only  once  or  twice  had  put 
some  cordial  to  her  lips.  After  they  all  were  gone,  the 
woman,  in  the  same  stjj,  gentle  way,  brought  a  vase  of 
wood-leaves  and  berries,  and  placed  it  by  the  pallet,  then 
opened  the  narrow  window.  The  fresh  air  blew  in,  and 
swept  the  woolly -fragrance  over  the  dead  face.  Deborah 
looked  up  with  a  quick  wonder. 

"  Did  hur  know  my  bby  wud  like  it  ?  Did  hur  know 
Hugh?" 

"  I  know  Hugh  now." 

The  white  fingers  passed  in  a  slow,  pitiful  way  over  the 
dead,  worn  face.  There  was  a  heavy  shadow  in  the  quiet 
eyes. 


go  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

"  Did  hur  know  where  they  '11  bury  Hugh  ?  "  said  Debo- 
rah in  a  shrill  tone,  catching  her  arm. 

This  had  been  the  question  hanging  on  her  lips  all  day. 

"  In  t'  town-yard  ?  Under  t'  mud  and  ash  ?  T  lad  'll 
smother,  woman  !  He  wur  born  on  t'  lane  moor,  where  tj 
air  is  frick  and  strong.  Take  hur  out,  for  God's  sake,  take 
hur  out  where  t'  air  blows  !  " 

The  Quaker  hesitated,  but  only  for  a  moment  She  put 
her  strong  arm  around  Deborah  and  led  her  to  the  window. 

"  Thee  sees  the  hills,  friend,  over  the  river  ?  Thee  sees 
how  the  light  lies  warm  there,  and  the  wiftds  of  God  blow 
all  the  day  ?  I  live  there,  —  where  the  blue  smoke  is,  by 
the  trees.  Look  at  me."  She  turned  Deborah's  face  to  her 
own,  clear  and  earnest.  "  Thee  will  believe  me  ?  I  will 
take  Hugh  and  bury  him  there  to-morrow." 

Deborah  did  not  doubt  her.  As  the  evening  wore  on, 
she  leaned  against  the  iron  bars,  looking  at  the  hills  that 
rose  far  off,  through  the  thick  sodden  clouds,  like  a  bright, 
unattainable  calm.  As  she  looked,  a  shadow  of  their  sol- 
emn repose  fell  on  her  face  :  its  fierce  discontent  faded  into 
a  pitiful,  humble  quiet.  Slow,  solemn  tears  gathered  in  her 
eyes  :  the  poor  weak  eyes  turned  so  hopelessly  to  the  place 
where  Hugh  was  to  rest,  the  grave  heights  looking  higher 
and  brighter  and  more  solemn  than  ever  before.  The 
Quaker  watched  her  keenly.  She  came  to  her  at  last,  and 
touched  her  arm. 

"  When  thee  comes  back,"  sh%said,  in  a  low,  sorrowful 
tone,  like  one  who  speaks  from  a  strong  heart  deeply  moved 
with  remorse  or  pity,  "  thee  shall  begin  thy  life  again,  — 
there  on  the  hills.  I  came  too  late  ;  but  not  for  thee,  —  by 
God's  help,  it  may  be." 

Not  too  late.  Three  years  after,  the  Quaker  began  her 
work.  I  end  my  story  here.  At  evening-time  it  was  light. 
There  is  no  need  to  tire  you  with  the  long  years  of  sun- 
shine, and  fresh  air,  and  slow,  patient  Christ-love,  needed  to 
make  healthy  and  hopeful  this  impure  body  and  soul. 
There  is  a  homely  pine  house,  on  one  of  these  hills,  whose 


Life  in  the  Iron-Mills.  91 

i 

windows  overlook  broad,  wooded  slopes  and  clover-crim- 
soned meadows,  —  niched  into  the  very  place  where  the 
light  is  warmest,  the  air  freest.  It  is  the  Friends'  meeting- 
house. Once  a  week  they  sit  there,  in  their  grave,  earnest 
way,  waiting  for  the  Spirit  of  Love  to  speak,  opening  their 
simple  hearts  to  receive  His  words.  There  is  a  woman, 
old,  deformed,  who  takes  a  humble  place  among  them : 
waiting  like  them :  in  her  gray  dress,  her  worn  face,  pure 
and  meek,  turned  now  and  then  to  the  sky.  A  woman 
much  loved  by  these  silent,  restful  people ;  more  silent 
than  they,  more  humble,  more  loving.  Waiting  :  with  her 
eyes  turned  to  hills  higher  and  purer  than  these  on  which 
she  lives,  —  dim  and  far  off  now,  but  to  be  reached  some 
day.  There  may  be  in  her  heart  some  latent  hope  to  meet 
there  the  love  denied  her  here,  —  that  she  shall  find  him 
whom  she  lost,  and  that  then  she  will  not  be  all-unworthy. 
Who  blames  her?  Something  is  lost  in  the  passage  of 
every  soul  from  one  eternity  to  the  other,  —  something  pure 
and  beautiful,  which  might  have  been  and  was  not :  a  hope, 
a  talent,  a  love,  over  which  the  soul  mourns,  like  Esau  de- 
prived of  his  birthright.  What  blame  to  the  meek  Quaker, 
if  she  took  her  lost  hope  to  make,  the  hills  of  heaven  more 
fair? 

Nothing  remains  to  tell  that  the  poor  Welsh  puddler  once 
lived,  but  this  figure  of  the  mill- woman  cut  in  korl.  I  have 
it  here  in  a  corner  of  my  library.  I  keep  it  hid  behind  a 
curtain,  —  it  is  such  a  rough,  ungainly  thing.  Yet  there  are 
about  it  touches,  grand  sweeps  of  outline,  that  show  a  mas- 
ter's hand.  Sometimes,  —  to-night,  for  instance,  —  the  cur- 
tain is  accidentally  drawn  back,  and  I  see  a  bare  arm 
stretched  out  imploringly  in  the  darkness,  and  an  eager, 
wolfish  face  watching  mine  :  a  wan,  woful  face,  through 
which  the  spirit  of  the  dead  korl-cutter  looks  out,  with  its 
thwarted  life,  its  mighty  hunger,  its  unfinished  work.  Its 
pale, 'vague  lips  seem  to  tremble  with  a  terrible  question. 
"Is  this  the  End  ?  "  —  they  say,  —  "  nothing  beyond  ?  —  no 
more  ?  "  Why,  you  tell  me  you  have  seen  that  look  in  the 


92  Life  in  the  Iron-Mills. 

•f 

eyes  of  dumb  brutes,  —  horses  dying  under  the  lash.     I 
know. 

The  deep  of  the  night  is  passing  while  I  write.  The 
gas-light  wakens  from  the  shadows  here  and  there  the  ob- 
jects which  lie  scattered  through  the  room  :  only  faintly, 
though  ;  for  they  belong  to  the  open  sunlight.  As  I  glance 
at  them,  they  each  recall  some  task  or  pleasure  of  the  com- 
ing day.  *A  half-moulded  child's  head  ;  Aphrodite ;  a 
bough  of  forest-leaves  ;  music  ;  work ;  homely  fragments, 
in  which  lie  the  secrets  of  all  eternal  truth  and  beauty. 
Prophetic  all !  Only  this  dumb,  woful  face  seems  to  belong 
to  and  end  with  the  night.  I  turn  to  look  at  it.  Has  the 
power  of  its  desperate  need  commanded  the  darkness  away  ? 
While  the  room  is  yet  steeped  in  heavy  shadow,  a  cool, 
gray  light  suddenly  touches  its  head  like  a  blessing  hand, 
and  its  groping  arm  points  through  the  broken  cloud  to  the 
far  East,  where,  in  the  flickering,  nebulous  crimson,  God 
has  set  the  promise  of  the  Dawn. 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  KNOWLEDGE  UNDER 
DIFFICULTIES ; 

AND   WHAT   CAME   OF   IT. 


R.  GEER!" 

Mr.  Geer  was  unquestionably  asleep. 

This  certainly  did  not  indicate  a  sufficiently 
warm  appreciation  of  Mrs.  Geer's  social  charms  ;  but  the 
enormity  of  the  offence  will  be  greatly  modified  by  a  brief 
review  of  the  attending  circumstances.  If  you  will  but  con- 
sider that  the  crackling  of  burning  wood  in  a  huge  Frank- 
lin stove  is  strongly  soporific  in  its  tendencies,  —  that  the 
cushion  of  a  capacious  arm-chair,  constructed  and  adjusted 
as  if  with  a  single  eye  to  a  delicious  doze,  nay,  to  a  long 
succession  of  dozes,  is  a  powerful  temptation  to  a  sleepy 
soul,  —  that  the  regular,  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  some- 
what monotonous  click,  click,  click  of  Mrs.  Geer's  knitting- 
needles  only  served  to  measure,  without  disturbing  the 
silence,  —  and,  lastly,  that  they  had  been  husband  and  wife 
for  thirty  years,  —  you  will  not  cease  to  wonder  that  Mr. 
Geer 

"  was  glorious, 
O'er  all  the  ills  of  life  victorious." 

To  most  men,  an  interruption  at  such  a  time  would  have 
been  particularly  annoying ;  but  when  Mrs.  Geer  spoke  in 
that  way,  Mr.  Geer,  asleep  or  awake,  always  made  a  point 
of  hearing ;  so  he  roused  himself,  and  turned  his  round, 


94  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

honest  face  and  placid  blue  eyes  on  the  partner  of  his 
bosom,  who  went  on, — 

"  Mr.  Geer,  our  Ivy  will  be  seventeen,  come  fall." 

"  Possible  ?  "  replied  Mr.  Geer.     "  Who  'd  'a'  thunk  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Geer,  as  you  may  infer,  was  eminently  a  free-thinker, 
or  rather,  a  free-actor,  in  respect  of  irregular  verbs.  In  fact, 
he  tyrannized  over  all  parts  of  speech  :  wrested  nouns  and 
verbs  from  their  original  shape,  till  you  could  hardly  recog- 
nize their  distorted  faces  ;  and  committed  that  next  worst 
sin  to  murdering  one's  mother,  namely,  —  murdering  one's 
mother-tongue,  with  an  abandon  that  was  absolutely  fasci- 
nating. Having  delivered  his  opinion  thus  sententiously,  he 
at  once  subsided,  closed  his  placid  eyes,  and  retired  into  his 
inner  world  of — thought,  perhaps. 

"Mr.  Geer!" 

This  time  he  fairly  jumped  from  his  seat,  and  cast  about 
him  scared,  blinking  eyes. 

"  Mr.  Geer,  how  can  you  sleep  away  your  precious  time 
so?" 

"  Sleep  ?  I  —  I  —  am  sure,  I  was  never  wider  awake  in 
my  life." 

"Well,  then,  tell  me  what  I  said." 

"  Said  ?    Eh,  —  eh,  —  something  about  Ivy,  was  n't  it  ?  " 

And  Mr.  Geer  nervously  twitched  up  the  skirts  of  his 
coat,  and  replaced  his  awry  cushion,  and  began  to  think 
that  perhaps,  after  all,  he  had  been  asleep.  But  Mrs.  Geer 
was  too  much  interested  in  the  subject  of  her  own  cogita- 
tions to  pursue  her  victory  further  ;  so  she  answered,  — 

"  Yes,  and  what  is  a-going  to  become  of  her  ? " 

"Lud,  lud!  What's  the  matter?"  asked  Mr.  Geer, 
wildly. 

"  Matter  ?  Why,  she  '11  be  seventeen,  come  fall,  and 
doesn't  know  a  thing." 

"  O  Lud  !  that  all  ?    That  a'n't  nothin'." 

And  Mr.  Geer  settled  comfortably  down  into  his  arm- 
chair once  more.  He  felt  decidedly  relieved.  Visions  of 
small-pox,  cholera,  and  throat-distemper,  the  worst  evils 


^mder  Difficulties.  95 

that  he  could  think  of  and  dread  for  his  darling,  had  been 
conjured  up  by  his  wife's  words  ;  and  when  he  found  the 
real  state  of  the  case,  a  great  burden,  which  had  suddenly 
fallen  on  his  heart,  was  as  suddenly  lifted. 

"  But  I  tell  you  it  is  something,"  continued  Mrs.  Geer, 
energetically.  "  Ivy  is  'most  a  woman,  and  has  never  been 
ten  miles  from  home  in  her  life,  and  to  no  school  but  our 
little  district—" 

"  And  she  's  as  pairk  a  gal,"  interrupted  Mr.  Geer,  "  as 
any  you  '11  find  in  all  the  ten  miles  round,  be  the  other  who 
she  will." 

"  She 's  well  enough  in  her  way,"  replied  Mrs.  Geer,  in 
all  the  humility  of  motherly  pride  ;  "  and  so  much  the  more 
reason  why  she  should  n't  be  let  go  so.  There 's  Mr.  Ding- 
ham  sending  his  great  logy  girls  to  Miss  Porter's  seminary. 
(I  wonder  if  he  expects  they  '11  ever  turn  out  anything  ?) 
And  here 's  our  Ivy,  bright  as  a  button,  and  you  full  well 
able  to  maintain  her  like  a  lady7,  and  have  done  nothing  but 
turn  her  out  to  grass  all  her  life,  till  she  's  fairly  run  wild.  I 
declare  it 's  a  shame.  She  ought  to  be  sent  to  school  to- 
morrow." 

"  Nonsense,  Sally  !  nonsense  !  I  a'n't  a-goin'  to  have 
no  such  doin's.  Sha'n't  go  off  to  school.  What 's  the  use 
havin'  her,  if  she  can't  stay  at  home  with  us?  Let  Mr. 
Dingham  send  his  gals  to  Chiny,  if  he  wants  to.  All  the 
book-larnin'  in  the  world  won't  make  'em  equal  to  our  Ivy 
with  only  her  own  head.  I  don't  want  her  to  go  to  gettin' 
up  high-falutin'  notions.  She  's  all  gold  now.  She  don't 
need  no  improvin'.  Sha'n't  budge  an  inch.  Sha'n't  stir  a 
step." 

"  But  do  consider,  Mr.  Geer,  the  child  has  got  to  leave  us 
some  time.  We  can't  have  her  always." 

"  Why  can't  we  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Geer,  almost  fiercely. 

"  Sure  enough  !  Why  can't  we  ?  There  a'n't  nobody  be- 
sides you  and  me,  I  suppose,  that  thinks  she's  pairk. 
What's  John  Herricks  and  Dan  Norris  hangin'  round  for 
all  the  time  ? " 


96  .'   The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

"  And  they  may  hang  round  till  the  cows  come  home  I 
Nary  hair  of  Ivy's  head  shall  they  touch,  —  nary  one  of 
'em  ! " 

Just  at  this  juncture  of  affairs,  the  damsel  in  question 
bounded  into  the  room. 

"  Come  here,  lyy,"  said  the  old  man  ;  "  your  mother 's 
been  a-slanderin'  you  ;  says  you  don't  know  nothin'." 

Ivy  knelt  before  him,  rested  her  arms  on  his  knees,  and 
turned  upon  him  a  pair  of  palpably  roguish  eyes. 

"  Father,  it  is  an  awful  slander.     I  do  know  a  sight." 

"  Lud,  child,  yes  !  I  knew  you  did.  No  more  you  don't 
want  to  marry  John  Herricks,  do  you  ?  " 

"O  Daddy  Geer!    O  — h  — h!" 

"  Nor  Dan  N orris  ?  nor  none  of  'em  ?  " 

"  Never  a  one,  father." 

"  Nor  don't  you  ever  think  of  gettin'  married  and  slavin* 
yourself  out  for  nobody.  I  'm  plenty  well  able  to  take  care 
of  you,  as  long  as  I  live.  You  '11  never  live  so  happy  as  you 
do  at  home  ;  and  you  '11  break  my  heart  to  go  away,  Ivy." 

"  I  '11  never  go,  papa."  (She  pronounced  it  with  the  ac- 
cent on  the  first  syllable.)  "Indeed,  I  never  will.  I'll 
never  be  married,  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  No  more  you  sha'n't,  good  child,  good  child  ! " 

And  again  Farmer  Geer  betook  himself  to  the  depths  of 
his  arm-chair,  with  the  complacent  consciousness  of  having 
faithfully  discharged  his  parental  duties.  "  She  should  not 
go  to  school.  She  would  not  be  married.  She  had  said 
she  would  not,  and  of  course  she  would  not." 

"  Of  course  I  shall  not,"  mused  Ivy,  as  she  lay  in  her 
white  bed.  "  What  could  put  it  into  poor  papa's  head  ? 
Marry  John  Herricks,  with  his  everlasting  smirk,  and  his 
diddling  walk,  and  take  care  of  all  the  Herricks'  sisters  and 
mothers  and  aunts,  and  the  Herricks'  cows  and  horses  and 
pigs  —  and  —  hens  —  and  —  and  —  " 

But  Ivy  had  kept  her  thoughts  on  her  marriage  longer 
than  ever  before  in  her  life  ;  and  ere  she  had  finished  the 
inventory  of  John  Herricks's  personal  property  and  real 


imder  Difficulties.  97 

estate,  the  blue  eyes  were  closed  in  the  sweet,  sound  sleep 
of  youth  and  health. 

Mrs.  Geer,  in  her  estimate  of  her  daughter's  attainments, 
was  partly  right  and  partly  wrong.  Ivy  had  never  been 
"  finished  "  at  Mrs.  Porter's  seminary,  and  was  consequently 
in  a  highly  unfinished  condition.  "  Small  Latin  and  less 
Greek"  jostled  each  other  in  her  head.  German  and 
French,  Italian  and  Spanish,  were  strange  tongues  to  Ivy. 
She  could  not  dance,  nor  play,  nor  draw,  nor  paint,  nor 
work  little  dogs  on  footstools. 

What,  then,  could  she  do  ? 

Imprimis,  she  could  climb  a  tree  like  a  squirrel.  Secundo, 
she  could  walk  across  the  great  beam  in  the  barn  like  a 
year-old  kitten.  In  the  pursuit  of  hens'  eggs  she  knew  no 
obstacles  ;  from  scaffold  to  scaffold,  from  haymow  to  hay- 
mow, she  leaped  defiant.  She  pulled  out  the  hay  from 
under  the  very  noses  of  the  astonished  cows,  to  see  if,  per- 
chance, some  inexperienced  pullet  might  there  have  depos- 
ited her  golden  treasure.  With  all  four-footed  beasts  she 
was  on  the  best  of  terms.  The  matronly  and  lazy  old  sheep 
she  unceremoniously  hustled  aside,  to  administer  consola- 
tion and  caresses  to  the  timid,  quaking  lamb  in  the  corner 
behind.  Without  saddle  or  bridle  she  could 

"  Ride  a  black  horse 
To  Banbury  Cross." 

(N.  B.  —  I  don't  say  she  actually  did.  I  only  say  she  could  ; 
and  under  sufficiently  strong  provocation,  I  have  no  doubt 
she  would.)  She  knew  where  the  purple  violets  and  the 
white  innocence  first  flecked  the  spring  turf,  and  where  the 
ground-sparrows  hid  their  mottled  eggs.  All  the  little  wad- 
dling, downy  goslings,  the  feeble  chickens,  and  faint-hearted, 
desponding  turkeys,  that  broke  the  shell  too  soon,  and  shiv- 
ered miserably  because  the  spring  sun  was  not  high  enough 
in  the  morning  to  warm  them,  she  fed  with  pap,  and  cher- 
ished in  cotton-wool,  and  nursed  and  watched  with  eager, 
happy  eyes.  O  blessed  Ivy  Geer  !  True  Sister  of  Charity  ! 
5  G 


98  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

Thrice  blessed  stepmother  of  a  brood  whose  name  was 
Legion  ! 

From  the  conjugal  and  filial  conversation  which  I  have 
faithfully  reported,  a  casual  observer,  particularly  if  young 
and  inexperienced,  might  infer  that  the  question  of  Miss 
Ivy's  education  was  definitively  settled,  and  that  she  was 
henceforth  to  remain  under  the  paternal  roof.  I  should,  my- 
self, have  fallen  into  the  same  .error,  had  not  a  long  and  inti- 
mate acquaintance  with  the .  female  sex  generated  and  cher- 
ished a  profound  and  mournful  conviction  of  the  truth  of 
the  maxim,  that  appearances  are  deceitful.  E.  g.,  a  woman 
has  set  her  heart  on  something,  and  is  refused.  She  pouts 
and  sulks  :  that  is  clouds,  and  will  soon  blow  over.  She 
scolds,  storms,  and  raves  (I  speak  in  a  figure  ;  I  mean  she 
does  something  as  much  like  that  as  a  tender,  delicate,  an- 
gelic woman  can)  :  that  is  thunder,  and  only  clears  the  air. 
She  betakes  herself  to  tears,  sobs,  and  embroidered  cam- 
bric :  that  is  a  shower,  and  everything  will  be  greener  and 
fresher  after  it.  You  may  go  your  ways,  —  one  to  his  farm, 
another  to  his  merchandise  ;  the  world  -will  not  wind  up  its 
affairs  just  yet.  But,  put  the  case,  she  goes  on  the  even 
tenor  of  her  way  unmoved : 

"  Beware  1  beware  I 
Trust  her  not ;  she  is  fooling  thee." 

Thus  Mrs.  Geer,  who  was  a  thorough  tactician.  Like 
Napoleon,  she  was  never  more  elated  than  after  a  defeat. 
Before  consulting  her  husband  at  all,  she  had  contemplated 
the  subject  in  all  its  bearings,  and  had  deliberately  decided 
that  Ivy  was  to  go  to  school.  The  consent  of  the  senior 
partner  qf  the  firm  was  a  secondary  matter,  which  time 
and  judicious  management  would  infallibly  secure.  Conse- 
quently, notwithstanding  the  unpropitious  result  of  their 
first  colloquy,  she  the  next  day  commenced  preparations  for 
Ivy's  departure,  as  unhesitatingly,  as  calmly,  as  assiduously, 
as  if  the  day  of  that  departure  had  been  fixed. 

Mrs.  Geer  was  right.     She  knew  she  was,  all  the  time. 


under  Difficulties.  99 

She  had  a  sublime  faith  in  herself.  She  felt  in  her  soul  the 
divine  afflatus,  and  pressed  forward  gloriously  to  her  goal. 
Mr.  Geer  had  as  much  firmness,  not  to  say  obstinacy,  as 
falls  to  the  lot  of  most  men  ;  but  Mrs.  Geer  had  more  ;  and 
as  Launce  Outram,  hard  beset,  so  pathetically  moaned,  "  A 
woman  in  the  very  house  has  such  deused  opportunities  ! " 
so  Farmer  Geer  grumbled,  and  squirmed,  and  remonstrated, 
and  —  yielded. 

Mrs.  Geer  was  not  right.  She  had  reckoned  without  her 
host.  Her  affairs  were  gliding  down  the  very  Appian  Way 
of  prosperity  in  a  chariot-and-four,  with  footmen  and  out- 
riders, when,  presto  !  they  turned  a  sharp  and  unexpected 
corner,  and  over  went  the  whole  establishment  into  a  mirier 
mire  than  ever  bespattered  Dr.  Slop. 

To  speak  without  a  parable.  When  her  expected  Hegira 
was  announced  to  Miss  Mary  Ives  Geer,  that  young  lady, 
to  the  ill-concealed  vexation  of  her  mother,  and  the  'not-at- 
tempted-to-be-concealed exultation  of  her  father,  expressed 
decided  disapprobation  of  the  whole  scheme.  As  she  was 
the  chief  dramatis. persona,  the  very  Hamlet  of  the  play, 
this  unlooked-for  decision  somewhat  interfered  with  Mrs. 
Geer's  plans.  All  the  eloquence  of  that  estimable  woman 
was  brought  to  bear  on  this  one  point ;  but  this  one  point 
was  invincible.  Expostulation  and  entreaty  were  alike  vain. 
Neither  ambition  nor  pleasure  could  hold  out  any  allure- 
ments to  Ivy.  Maternal  authority  was  at  length  hinted  at, 
only  hinted  at,  and  the  spoiled  child  declared  that  she  had 
not  had  her  own  will  and  way  for  sixteen  years  to  give  up 
quietly  in  her  seventeenth.  One  last  resort,  one  forlorn 
hope,  —  one  expedient,  which  had  never  failed  to  overcome 
her  childish  stubbornness  :  "  Would  she  grieve  her  parents 
so  much  as  to  oppose  this  their  darling  wish  ? "  And  Ivy 
burst  into  tears,  and  begged  to  know  if  she  should  show  her 
i  love  to  her  father  and  mother  by  going  away  from  them. 
j  This  drove  the  nail  into  her  old  father's  heart,  and  then  the 
little  vixen  clenched  it  by  throwing  herself  into  his  arms, 
and  sobbing,  "  O,  papa  !  would  you  turn  your  Ivy  out  of 
doors  and  break  her  heart  ?  " 


ioo  The  Purstiit.  of  Knowledge 

Flimsiest  of  fallacies  !  Shallowest  of  sophists  !  But  she 
was  the  only  and  beloved  child  of  his  old  age  ;  so  the  fal- 
lacy passed  unchallenged  ;  the  strong  arms  closed  around 
the  naughty  girl ;  and  the  soothing  voice  murmured,  — 
"  There,  there,  Ivy  !  don't  cry,  child  !  Lud  !  lud  !  you 
sha'n't  be  bothered  ;  no  more  you  sha'n't,  lovey  ! "  and  the 
status  quo  was  restored. 

w  It  is  not  in  the  sea  nor  in  the  strife 

We  feel  benumbed  and  wish  to  be  no  more, 
But  in  the  after  silence  on  the  shore, 
When  all  is  lost,  except  a  little  life," 

said  one  who  had  breasted  the  stormiest  sea  and  plunged 
into  the  fiercest  strife.  Ivy,  who  had  never  read  Byron,  and 
therefore  could  not  be  suspected  of  any  Byronical  affecta- 
tions, felt  it,  when,  having  gained  her  point,  she  sat  down 
alone  in  her  own  room.  When  her  single  self  had  been 
pitted  against  superior  numbers,  age,  experience,  and  pa- 
rental authority,  all  her  heroism  was  roused,  and  she  was 
adequate  to  the  emergency  ;  but  her  end  gained,  the  excite- 
ment gone,  the  sense  of  disobedience  alone  remaining,  and 
she  was  thoroughly  uncomfortable,  nay,  miserable. 

"  Mamma  is  right ;  I  know  I  am  a  little  goose,"  sobbed 
she.  (The  words  were  mental,  intangible,  unspoken ;  the 
sobs  physical,  palpable,  decided.)  "  I  never  did  know  any- 
thing, and  I  never  shall,  —  and  I  don't  care  if  I  don't.  I 
don't  see  any  good  in  knowing  so  much.  We  don't  have  a 
great  while  to  stay  in  the  world  any  way,  and  I  don't  see 
why  we  can't  be  let  alone  and  have  a  good  time  while  we 
are  here,  and  when  we  get  to  heaven  we  can  take  a  fresh 
start.  O,  dear  !  I  never  shall  go  to  heaven,  if  I  am  so  bad 
and  vex  mamma.  But  then  papa  did  n't  care.  But  then 
he  would  have  liked  me  to  go  to  school.  But  there,  I  won't ! 
I  won't  !  I  will  not !  I  '11  study  at  home.  O,  dear  !  I 
wish  papa  was  a  great  man,  and  knew  everything,  and  could 
teach  me.  Well,  he  is  just  as  happy,  and  just  as  rich,  and 
everybody  likes  him  just  as  well,  as  if  he  knew  the  whole 
world  full ;  and  why  can't  I  do  so,  too  ?  Rebecca  Dingham, 


under  Difficulties.  IOI 

indeed !  Mercy !  I  hope  I  never  shall  be  like  her ;  I 
would  rather  not  know  my  ABC!  What  shall  I  do  ? 
There 's  Mr.  Brownslow  might  teach  me  ;  he  knows  enough. 
But,  dear  me  !  he  is  as  busy  as  he  can  be,  all  day  long  ; 
and  Squire  Merrill  goes  out  of  town  every  day  ;  and  there 's 
Dr.  Mix,  to  be  sure,  but  he  smells  so  strong  of  paregoric, 
and  I  don't  believe  he  knows  much,  either  ;  and  there  's  no- 
body else  in  town  that  knows  any  more  than  anybody  else  ; 
and  there 's  nothing  for  it  but  I  must  go  to  school,  if  I  am 
ever  to  know  anything."  (A  renewal  of  sobs,  uninterrupted 
for  several  minutes.)  "  There  's  Mr.  Clerron  !  "  (A  sudden 
cessation.)  "  I  suppose  he  knows  more  than  the  whole 

town  tumbled  into  one  ;  and  writes  books,  and mercy  ! 

there 's  no  end  to  his  knowledge  ;  and  he 's  rich,  and  does 
everything  he  likes,  all  day  long.  O,  if  I  only  did  know 
him  !  I  would  ask  him  straight  off  to  teach  me.  I  should 
be  scared  to  death.  I  Ve  a  great  mind  to  ask  him,  as  it  is. 
I  can  tell  him  who  I  am.  He  never  will  know  any  other 
way,  for  he  is  n't  acquainted  with  anybody.  They  say  he  is 
as  proud  as  Lucifer.  If  he  were  ten  times  prouder,  I  would 
rather  ask  him  than  go  to  school.  He  might  just  as  well 
do  something  as  not.  I  am  sure,  if  God  had  made  me  him, 
and  him  me,  I  should  be  glad  to  help  him.  I  '11  go  straight 
to  him  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morning." 

Once  seeing  a  possible  way  out  of  her  difficulties,  her  sor- 
row vanished.  Not  quite  so  gayly  as  usual,  it  is  true,  did 
she  sing  about  the  house  that  night ;  for  she  was  summon- 
ing all  her  powers  to  prepare  an  introductory  speech  to 
Felix  Clerron,  Esq.,  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar.  Her  elo- 
cutionary attempts  were  not  quite  satisfactory  to  herself,  but 
she  was  not  to  be  daunted  ;  and  when  morning  came,  she 
took  heart  of  grace,  slung  her  broad-brimmed  hat  over  her 
arm,  and  began  her  march  "  over  the  hills  and  far  away,"  in 
search  of  her  —  fate. 

"  And  did  her  mother  really  let  her  roam  away,  alone,  on 
such  an  errand,  to  a  perfect  stranger  ?  " 

"  Humanly  speaking,"  nothing  was  more  unlikely  than 


102  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

that  Mrs.  Geer,  a  prudent,  modest,  arid  sensible  woman, 
should  give  her  consent  to  such  an  —  to  use  the  mildest 
term  —  unusual  undertaking.  Nor  did  she.  The  fact  is, 
her  consent  was  not  asked.  She  knew  nothing  whatever  of 
the  plan. 

"  Worse  and  worse  !  Did  the  wilful  girl  go  off  without 
leave  ?  without  even  informing  her  parents  ?  "  . 

I  am  sorry  to  say  she  did.  In  writing  a  story  of  real  life, 
one  cannot  take  that  liberty  with  facts' which  is  quite  proper, 
not  to  say  indispensable,  in  history,  science,  and  belles-lettres 
generally.  Duty  compels  me  to  adhere  closely  to  the  truth  ; 
and  for  whatever  of  obloquy  may  be  heaped  upon  me,  or 
upon  my  Ivy,  I  shall  find  consolation  in  the  words  of  the 
illustrious  Harrison  ;  or  perhaps  it  was  the  illustrious  Tay- 
lor ;  I  am  not  quite  sure,  however,  that  it  was  not  the  illus- 
trious Washington  :  —  "  Do  right,  and  let  the  consequences 
take  care  of  themselves."  I  am  therefore  obliged  to  say, 
that  Ivy's  departure  in  pursuit  of  knowledge  was  entirely 
unknown  to  her  respected  and  beloved  parents.  But  you 
must  remember  that  she  was  an  only  child,  and  a  spoiled 
child,  —  spoiled  as  only  stern  New  England  Puritan  parents, 
somewhat  advanced  in  years,  can  spoil  their  children.  I  do 
not  defend  Ivy.  On  the  contrary,  notwithstanding  my 
regard  for  her,  I  hand  her  over  to  the  reprobation  of  an 
enlightened  community  ;  and  I  hereby  entreat  all  young 
persons  into  whose  hands  this  memoir  may  fall  to  take 
warning  by  the  fate  of  poor  Ivy,  and  never  enter  upon  any 
important  undertaking,  until  they  have,  to  say  the  least, 
consulted  those  who  are  their  natural  guides,  their  warmest 
friends,  and  their  most  experienced  counsellors. 

While  I  have  been  writing  this,  Ivy  Geer,  light  of  heart, 
fleet  of  foot,  and  firm  of  will,  has  passed  over  hillside, 
through  wood-path,  and  across  meadow-land,  and  drawn 
near  the  domains  of  Felix  Clerron,  Esq.  Light  of  heart 
perhaps  I  scarcely  ought  to  say.  Certainly,  that  enterpris- 
ing organ  had  never  before  beat  so  furious  a  tattoo  in  Ivy's 
breast,  as  when  she  stood,  hat  in  hand,  on  the  steps  of  the 


under  Difficulties.  103 

somewhat  stately  dwelling.  To  do  her  justice,  she  had  in- 
tended to  do  the  penance  of  wearing  her  hat  when  she 
should  have  reached  her  destination  ;  but  in  her  excitement 
she  quite  forgot  it.  So,  as  I  said,  she  stood  on  the  door- 
step, as  a  royal  maiden  stood  three  hundred  years  before 
(not  in  the  same  place),  with  the  "  wind  blowing  her  fair 
hair  about  her  beautiful  cheeks." 

There  had  come  to  Ivy  from  the  great,  gay  world  a  vague 
rumor,  that,  instead  of  knocking  at  a  door,  like  a  Christian, 
with  your  own  good  knuckles,  for  such  case  made  and  pro- 
vided, modern  fashion  had  introduced  "  the  ringing  and  the 
dinging  of  the  bells."  This  vague  rumor  found  a  local  hab- 
itation, when  Mr.  Clerron  came  down  upon  the  village  and 
established  himself,  his  men  and  women  and  horses  and 
cattle  ;  but  as  Ivy  stood  on  his  doorstep,  looking  upward, 
downward,  sidewise,  with  earnest,  peering  gaze,  no  bell,  and 
no  sign  of  bell,  was  visible  ;  nothing  unusual,  save  a  little 
door-knob  at  the  right  hand  side  of  the  door,  —  a  thing 
which  could  not  be  accounted  for.  After  long  and  serious 
deliberation,  she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  bell  must 
be  inside,  and  that  the  knob  was  a  screw  attached  to  it.  So 
she  tried  to  twist  it,  first  one  way,  then  the  other  ;  but  twist 
it  would  not.  In  despair  she  betook  herself  to  her  fingers 
and  knocked.  Nobody  came.  Twist  again.  No  use. 
Knock  again.  Ditto.  Then  she  went  down  to  the  grav-- 
elled  path,  selected  one  of  the  largest  pebbles,  took  up  her 
station  before  the  door,  and  began  to  pound  away.  In  a 
moment,  a  gentleman  in  dressing-gown  and  smoking-cap, 
with  a  cigar  between  his  fingers,  came  round  the  corner. 
Seeing  her,  he  threw  away  his  cigar,  lifted  his  velvet  cap, 
bowed,  and,  with  a  gentle  "  allow  me,"  stepped  to  the  door, 
pulled  the  bell,  and  again  passed  out  of  sight.  Ivy  was  not 
so  confused  at  being  detected  in  her  assault  and  battery  on 
the  door  of  a  respectable,  peaceable,  private  gentleman,  as 
not  to  make  the  silent  reflection,  "  Pulled  the  knob,  instead 
of  twisting  it.  How  easy  it  is  to  do  a  thing,  if  you  only 
know  how  ! " 


IO4  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

The  summons  was  soon  answered  by  a  black  gnome,  and 
Ivy  was  ushered  into  a  large  room,  which,  to  her  dazzled, 
sun- weary  eyes,  seemed  delightfully  fresh  and  green-looking. 
Two  minutes  more  of  waiting,  —  then  a  step  in  the  hall,  a 
gently  opening  door,  and  Ivy  felt  rather  than  saw  herself  in 
the  presence  of  the  formidable  Mr.  Clerron.  A  single 
glance  showed  her  that  he  was  the  person  who  had  rung 
the  bell  for  her,  though  the  gay  dressing-gown  had  been 
exchanged  for  a  soberer  suit  Mr.  Clerron  bowed.  Ivy, 
hardly  knowing  what  sh*e  did,  faltered  forth,  "  I  am  Ivy 
Geer."  A  half-curious,  half-sarcastic  smile  glimmered 
behind  the  heavy  beard,  and  gleamed  beneath  the  heavy 
eyebrows,  as  he  answered,  "  I  am  happy  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance "  ;  but  another  glance  at  the  trembling  form,  the 
frightened,  pale  face,  and  quivering  lips,  changed  the  smile 
into  one  that  was  very  good-natured,  and  even  kind  ;  and 
he  added,  playfully,  — 

"  I  am  Felix  Clerron,  very  much  at  your  service." 

"  You  write  books  and  are  a  very  learned  man,"  pursued 
Ivy,  hurriedly,  never  lifting  her  eyes  from  the  floor,  and 
never  ceasing  to  twirl  her  hat-strings. 

There  was  no  possibility  of  supposing  her  guilty  of  com- 
mitting a  little  diplomatic  flattery  in  conveying  this  succinct 
bit  of  information.  She  made  the  assertion  with  the  air  of 
one  who  has  a  disagreeable  piece  of  business  on  hand,  and 
is  determined  to  go  through  with  it  as  soon  as  possible. 
He  bowed  and  smiled  again  ;  quite  unnecessarily,  —  since, 
as  I  have  before  remarked,  Ivy's  eyes  were  steadfastly  fixed 
on  the  carpet.  A  slight  pause  for  breath  and  she  pitched 
ahead  again. 

"  I  am  very  ignorant,  and  I  am  growing  old.  I  am  almost 
seventeen.  I  don't  know  anything  to  speak  of.  Mamma 
wishes  me  to  go  to  school.  Papa  did  not,  but  now  he  does. 
I  won't  go.  I  would  rather  be  stupid  all  my  life  long  than 
leave  home.  But  mamma  is  vexed,  and  I  want  to  please 
her,  and  I  thought,  —  Mr.  Brownslow  is  so  busy,  and  you, — 
if  you  have  nothing  to  do,  —  and  know  so  much,  —  I 
thought " 


under  Difficulties.  105 

She  stopped  short,  utterly  unable  to  proceed.  Wonder- 
fully different  did  this  affair  seem  from  the  one  she  had 
planned  the  preceding  evening.  It  is  so  much  easier  to 
fight  the  battle  of  life  in  our  own  chimney-corner,  by  the 
ruddy  and  genial  firelight,  than  in  broad  day  on  the  world's 
great  battle-field  !  . 

Mr.  Clerron,  seeing  Ivy's  confusion,  kindly  came  to  her 
aid.  "  And  you  thought  my  superfluous  time  and  wisdom 
might  be  transferred  to  you,  thus  making  a  more  equal 
division  of  property  ?  " 

"  If  you  would  be  so  good,  —  I,  —  yes,  Sir." 

"  May  I  inquire  how  you  propose  to  effect  such  an  ex- 
change?" 

He  really  did  not  intend  to  be  anything  but  kind,  but  the 
whole  matter  presented  itself  to  him  in  a  very  ludicrous 
light ;  and  in  endeavoring  to  preserve  proper  gravity,  he 
became  severe.  Ivy,  all-unused  to  the  world,  still  had  a  se- 
cret feeling  that  he  was  laughing  at  her.  Tears,  that  would 
not  be  repressed,  glistened  in  her  downcast  eyes,  gathered 
on  the  long  lashes,  dropped  silently  to  the  floor.  He  saw 
that  she  was  entirely  a  child,  ignorant,  artless,  and  sincere. 
His  better  feelings  were  roused,  and  he  exclaimed,  with  real 
earnestness,  — 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  I  should  rejoice  to  serve  you  in 
any  way,  I  beg  you  to  believe." 

His  words  only  hastened  the  catastrophe  which  seems  to 
be  always  impending  over  the  weaker  sex.  Ivy  sobbed  out- 
right, —  a  perfect  tempest.  Felix  Clerron  looked  on  with  a 
bachelor's  dismay.  "  What  in  thunder  ?  Confound  the 
girl !  "  were  his  first  reflections  ;  but  her  utter  abandonment 
to  sorrow  melted  his  heart  again,  —  not  a  very  susceptible 
heart  either  ;  but  men,  especially  bachelors,  are  so. — green  ! 
(the  word  is  found  in  Cowper.) 

He  sat  down  by  her  side,  stroked  the  hair  from  her 
burning  forehead,  as  if  she  had  been  six  instead  of  six- 
teen, and  again  and  again  assured  her  of  his  willingness 
to  assist  her. 


io6  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

"  I  must  go  home,"  whispered  Ivy,  as  soon  as  she  could 
command,  or  rather  coax  her  voice. 

His  hospitality  was  shocked. 

"  Indeed  you  must  not,  till  we  have  at  least  had  a  con- 
sultation. Tell  me  how  much  you  know.  What  have  you 
studied  ? " 

"  O,  nothing,  Sir.     I  am  very  stupid." 

"  Ah  !  we  must  begin  with  the  Alphabet,  then.  Blocks 
or  a  primer  ?  " 

Ivy  smiled  through  her  tears. 

"  Not  quite  so  bad  as  that,  Sir. 

"  You  do  know  your  letters  ?  Perhaps  you  can  even 
count,  and  spell  your  name  ;  maybe  write  it.  Pray,  en- 
lighten me." 

Ivy  grew  calm  as  he  became  playful. 

"  I  can  cipher  pretty  well.  I  have  been  through  Green- 
leaf's  Large." 

"  House  or  meadow  ?  And  the  exact  dimensions,  if  you 
please." 

"Sir?" 

"  I  understood  you  to  say  you  had  traversed  Green- 
leaf's  large.  You  did  not  designate  what." 

He  was  laughing  at  her  now,  indeed,  but  it  was  open  and 
genial,  and  she  joined. 

"  My  Arithmetic,  of  course.  I  supposed  everybody  knew 
that.  Everybody  calls  it  so." 

"  Time  is  shoVt.     Yes.     Do  you  like  Arithmetic  ?  " 

"  Pretty  well,  some  parts  of  it.  Fractions  and  Partial 
Payments.  But  I  can't  bear  Duodecimals,  Position,  and 
such  things." 

"  Positions  are  occasionally  embarrassing.  And  Gram- 
mar?" 

"  I  think  it's  horrid.  It's  all  'indicative  mood,  common 
noun,  third  person,  singular  number,  and  agrees  with  John.'  " 

"  Bravissima !  A  comprehensive  sketch  !  A  bird's-eye 
view,  as  one  may  say,  —  and  not  entertaining,  certainly. 
What  other  branches  have  you  pursued  ?  Drawing,  for  in- 
stance ?  " 


under  Difficulties.  107 

«  O,  no,  Sir ! " 

"  Nor  Music  ?  " 

"  No,  Sir." 

"  Good  !  excellent !  An  overruling  Providence  has  saved 
you  and  your  friends  from  many  a  pitfall.  Shall  we  pro- 
ceed to  History  ?  Be  so  good  as  to  inform  me  who  discov- 
ered America." 

"  I  believe  Columbus  has  the  credit  of  it,"  replied  Ivy, 
demurely. 

"  Non-committal,  I  see.  Case  goes  strongly  in  his  favor, 
but  you  reserve  your  judgment  till  further  evidence." 

"  I  think  he  was  a  wise  and  good  and  enterprising  man." 

"  But  are  rather  sceptical  about  that  San  Salvador  story. 
A  wise  course.  Never  decide  till  both  sides  have  been 
fairly  presented.  '  He  that  judgeth  a  matter  before  he 
heareth  it,  it  is  folly  and  shame  unto  him,'  said  the  wise 
man.  Occasionally  his  after-judgment  is  equally  discredit- 
able. That  is  a  thousand  times  worse.  Exit  Clio.  Enter 
—  well !  —  Geographia.  My  young  friend,  what  celebrated 
city  has  the  honor  of  concentrating  the  laws,  learning,  and 
literature  of  Massachusetts,  to  wit,  namely,  is  its  capital?" 

"  Boston,  Sir." 

"  Your  Geography  has  evidently  been  attended  to.  You 
have  learned  the  basis  fact.  You  have  discovered  the  pivot 
on  which  the  world  turns.  You  have  dug  down  to  the 
antediluvian,  ante-pyrean  granite,  —  the  primitive,  unfused 
stratum  of  society.  The  force  of  learning  can  no  farther 
go.  Armed  with  that  fact,  you  may  march  fearlessly  forth 
to  do  battle  with  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  —  the  —  ahem  — 
the  King  of  Beasts  !  Do  you  think  you  should  like  me  for 
a  teacher  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell,  Sir.  I  did  not  like  you  as  anything  awhile 
ago." 

"  But  you  like  me  better  now  ?  You  think  I  improve  on 
acquaintance  ?  You  detect  signs  of  a  moral  reformation?" 

"  No,  Sir,  I  don't  like  you  now.  I  only  don't  dislike  you 
so  much  as  I  did." 


loS  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

"  Spoken  like  a  major-general,  or,  better  still,  like  a  brave 
little  Yankee  girl,  as  you  are.  I  am  an  enthusiastic  admirer 
of  truth.  I  foresee  we  shall  get  on  famously.  I  was  rather 
premature  in  sounding  the  state  of  your  affections,  it  must 
be  confessed, — but  we  shall  be  rare  friends  by  and  by. 
On  the  whole,  you  are  not  particularly  fond  of  books  ?  " 

"  I  like  some  books  well  enough,  but  not  studying-books," 
said  Ivy,  with  a  sigh,  "  and  I  don't  see  any  good  in  them. 
If  it  was  n't  for  mamma,  I  never  would  open  one,  —  never  ! 
I  would  just  as  soon  be  a  dunce  as  not ;  I  don't  see  any- 
thing very  horrid  in  it." 

"  How  should  you,  to  be  sure  ?  There  is  a  distinction, 
however,  which  you  must  immediately  learn  to  make.  The 
dunce  subjective  is  a  very  inoffensive  animal,  contented, 
happy,  and  harmless  ;  and,  as  you  justly  remark,  inspires 
no  horror,  but  rather  an  amiable  and  genial  self-compla- 
cency. The  dunce  objective,  on  the  contrary,  is  of  an  en- 
tirely different  species.  He  is  a  bore  of  the  first  magnitude, 
—  a  poisoned  arrow,  that  not  only  pierces,  but  inflames,  — 
a  dull  knife,  that  not  only  cuts,  but  tears,  —  a  cowardly  little 
cur,  that  snaps  occasionally,  but  snarls  unceasingly  ;  whom, 
which,  and  that,  it  becomes  the  duty  of  all  good  citizens  to 
sweep  from  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"  What  is  the  difference  between  them  ?  How  shall  one 
know  which  is  which  ?  " 

"The  dunce  subjective  is  the  dunce  from  his  own  point 
of  view,  —  the  dunce  with  his  eyes  turned  inward, . —  confin- 
ing his  duncehood  to  the  bosom  of  his  family.  The  dunce 
objective  is  the  dunce  butting  against  his  neighbor's  study- 
door, —  intruding,  obtruding,  protruding  his  insipid  folly 
and  still  more  insipid  wisdom  at  all  times  and  seasons.  He 
is  a  creature  utterly  devoid  of  shame.  He  is  like  Milton's 
angels,  in  one  respect  at  least :  you  may  thrust  him  through 
and  through  with  the  two-edged  sword  of  your  satire,  and 
at  the  end  he  shall  be  as  intact  and  integral  as  at  the  be- 
ginning. Am  I  sufficiently  obvious  ? "  He  was  talking, 
however,  quite  as  much  to  himself  as  to  Ivy,  and  with  a 
bitterness  evidently  born  of  suffering. 


under  Difficulties.  109 

"  It  is  very  obvious  that  I  am  both,  according  to  your 
definition." 

"  It  is  very  obvious  that  you  are  neither,  but  a  sensible 
young  girl,  — with  no  great  quantity  of  the  manufactured  ar- 
ticle, perhaps,  but  plenty  of  raw  material,  capable  of  being 
wrought  into  fabric  of  the  finest  quality." 

"  Do  you  really  think  I  can  learn  ?  "  asked  Ivy,  with  a 
bright  blush  of  pleasure. 

"  Can  learn  ?  " 

"  As  much  as  if  I  went  to  school  ?  " 

"  My  dear  miss,  as  the  forest  oak,  '  cabined,  cribbed,  con- 
fined '  with  multitudes  of  its  fellows,  grows  stunted,  scrubby, 
and  dwarfed,  but  brought  into  the  open  fields  alone,  stretches 
out  its  arms  to  the  blue  heavens  and  its  roots  to  the  kindly 
earth,  —  so,  in  a  word,  shall  you,  under  my  fostering  care, 
flourish  like  a  green  bay-tree,  only  not  quite  so  high  and 
mightily  as  I  am  flourishing  now  ;  —  that  is,  if  I  am  to 
have  the  honor." 

"  Yes,  Sir,  I  mean  —  I  meant  —  I  was  thinking  as  if  you 
were  teaching  me  —  I  mean  were  going  to  teach  me." 

"  Which  I  also  mean,  if  your  parents  continue  to  wish  it;" 

"  O,  they  won't  care  !  " 

"  Won't  care  ? " 

"  No,  Sir,  they  will  be  glad,  I  think.  Papa,  at  least,  will 
be  glad  to  have  me  stay  at  home." 

"  Did  not  they  direct  you  to  come  to  me  to-day  ? " 

Ivy  blushed  deeply,  and  replied,  in  a  low  voice,  "  No,  Sir ; 
I  knew  mamma  would  not  let  me  come,  if  I  asked  her." 

"  And  to  prevent  any  sudden  temptation  to  disobedience, 
and  a  consequent  forfeiture  of  your  peace  of  mind,  you 
took  time  by  the  forelock  and  came  on  your  own  responsi- 
bility?" 

"  Yes,  Sir." 

"  Very  ingenious,  upon  my  word  !  But,  my  dear  Miss 
Geer,  I  must  confess  I  have  not  this  happy  feminine  knack 
of  keeping  out  of  the  way  of  temptation.  I  should  prefer 
to  consult  your  friends,  even  at  the  risk  of  losing  the  pleas- 
ure of  your  society." 


no  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

"  O,  yes,  Sir  !  I  don't  care,  now  it  is  all  settled." 
And  so,  over  hillside,  along  wood-path,  and  through 
meadow-land,  with  light  heart  and  smiling  eyes,  tripped  Ivy 
back  again.  To  Mrs.  Geer  shelling  peas  in  the  shady 
porch,  and  to  Mr.  Geer  fanning  himself  with  his  straw  hat 
on  the  steps  beside  her,  Ivy  recounted  the  story  of  her  ad- 
ventures. Mrs.  Geer  was  thunderstruck  at  Ivy's  temerity  ; 
Mr.  Geer  was  lost  in  admiration  of  her  pluck.  Mrs.  Geer 
termed  it  a  wild-goose  chase  ;  Mr.  Geer  declared  Ivy  to  be 
as  smart  as  a  steel  trap.  Mrs.  Geer  vetoed  the  whole  plan  ; 
Mr.  Geer  did  n't  know.  But  when  at  sunset  Mr.  Clerron 
rode  over,  and  admired  Mr.  Geer's  orchard,  and  praised  the 
points  of  his  Durhams,  and  begged  a  root  of  Mrs.  Geer's 
scarlet;  verbena,  and  assured  them  he  should  be  very  glad  to 
refresh  his  own  earl* studies,  and  also  to  form  an  acquaint- 
ance with  the  family,  —  he  knew  very  few  in  the  village,  — 
and  if  Mrs.  Geer  would  drive  over  when  Ivy  came  to  recite, 
—  or  perhaps  they  would  rather  he  should  come  to  their 
house.  O,  no  !  Mrs.  Geer  could  not  think  of  that.  Just 
as  they  pleased.  Mrs.  Simm,  the  housekeeper,  would  be 
very  glad  to  meet  Mrs.  Geer.  By  the  way,  Mrs.  Simm  was 
a  thrifty  and  sensible  woman,  and  he  was  sure  they  would 
be  pleased  with  each  other.  When,  in  short,  all  this  and 
much  more  had  been  said,  it  was  decided  that  Ivy  should  be 
regularly  installed  pupil  of  Mr.  Felix  Clerron. 

"  Eureka  !  "  cries  the  professional  novel-reader,  that  far- 
sighted  and  keen-scented  hound  that  snuffs  a  denouement 
afar  off ;  and  anon  there  rises  before  his  eyes  the  vision  of 
poor  little  Stella  drinking  in  love  and  learning,  especially 
love,  from  the  divine  eyes  of  the  anything  but  divine  Swift, 
—  of  Shirley,  the  lioness,  the  pantheress,  the  leopardess,  the 
beautiful,  fierce  creature,  sitting,  tamed,  quiet,  meek,  by  the 
side  of  Louis  Moore,  her  tutor  and  master,  —  and  of  all  the 
legends  of  all  the  ages  wherein  Beauty  has  sat  at  the  feet  of 
Wisdom,  and  Love  has  crept  in  unawares,  and  spoiled  the 
lesson  while  as  yet  half-unlearnt ;  —  so  he  cries,  "  She  is 
going  the  way  of  all  heroines.  The  man  and  the  girl,  — 


under  Difficulties.  1 1 1 

they  will  fall  in  love,  marry,  and  live  happily  all  the  rest  of 
their  days." 

Of  course  they  will.  Is  there  any  reason  why  they  should 
not  ?  If  any  man  can  show  just  cause  why  they  may  not 
lawfully  be  joined  together,  let  him  now  speak,  or  else  here- 
after forever  hold  his  peace. 

I  repeat  it,  of  course  they  will.  You  surely  cannot  sup- 
pose I  should,  in  cold  blood,  sit  down  to  write  a  story  in 
which  nobody  was  to  fall  in  love  or  be  in  love  !  Scoff  as 
you  may,  love  is  the  one  vital  principle  in  all  romance.  Not 
only  does  your  cheek  flush  and  your  eye  sparkle,  till  heart, 
brain,  and  soul  are  all  on  fire,  over  the  burning  words  of 
some  Brontean  Pythoness,  but  when  you  open  'the  last 
thrilling  work  of  Maggie  Marigold,  and  are  immediately 
submerged  "  in  a  weak,  washy,  everlasting  flood  "  of  insip- 
idity, and  heart-rending  sorrow,  you  do  not  shut  the  book 
with  a  jerk.  Why  not  ?  Because  in  the  dismal  distance 
you  dimly  descry  two  figures  swimming,  floating,  struggling 
towards  each  other,  and  a  languid  curiosity  detains  you  till 
you  have  ascertained,  that,  after  infinite  distress,  Adolphus 
and  Miranda  have  made 

"  One  of  the  very  best  matches, 

Both  well  mated  for  life  : 
She  's  got  a  fool  for  a  husband, 
He 's  got  a  fool  for  his  wife." 

Sir,  scoff  as  you  may,  love  is  the  one  sunbeam  of  poetry 
that  gilds  with  a  softened  splendor  the  hard,  bare  outline  of 
many  a  prosaic  life.  "  Work,  work,  work,  from  weary  chime 
to  chime  "  ;  tramp  behind  the  plough,  hammer  on  the  lap- 
stone,  beat  the  anvil,  drive  the  plane,  from  morn  till  dewy 
eve  ;  but  when  the  dewy  eve  comes,  ah  !  Hesperus  gleams 
soft  and  golden  over  the  far-off  pine-trees,  but 

"The  star  that  lightens  your  bosom  most, 
And  gives  to  your  weary  feet  their  speed, 
Abides  in  a  cottage  beyond  the  mead." 

It  is  useless  to  assert  that  the  subject  is  worn  threadbare. 


112  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

Threadbare  it  may  be  to  you,  enervated  and  blast  man  of 
pleasure,  worn  and  hardened  man  of  the  world ;  but  it  is 
not  for  you  I  write.  The  fountain  which  leaps  up  fresh  and 
living  in  every  new  life  can  never  be  exhausted  till  the 
springs  of  all  life  are  dry.  Tell  me,  O  lover,  gazing  into 
those  tender  eyes  uplifted  to  yours,  twining  the  silken  rings 
around  your  bronzed  finger,  —  does  it  abate  one  jot  or  tittle 
of  your  happiness  to  know  that  eyes  just  as  tender,  curls 
just  as  silken,  have  stirred  the  hearts  of  men  for  a  thousand 
years  ? 

Love,  then,  is  a  sine  qua  non  in  stories  ;  and  if  love,  why 
not  marriage  ?  What  pleasure  can  a  humane  and  benevo- 
lent man  find  in  separating  two  individuals  whose  chief, 
perhaps  whose  sole  happiness,  consists  in  being  together  ? 
For  certain  inscrutable  reasons,  Divine  Benevolence  per- 
mits evil  to  exist  in  the  world.  All  who  have  a  taste  for 
misery  can  find  it  there  in  exhaustless  quantities.  Johns 
are  every  day  falling  in  love  with  Katys,  but  marrying  Isa- 
bels, and  Isabels  the  same,  mutatis  mutandis.  We  submit 
to  it  because  there  is  no  alternative  ;  and  we  believe  that 
good  shall  finally  be  wrought  and  wrested  from  evil.  But 
let  us  not  in  mere  wantonness  introduce  into  our  novel- 
world  the  work  of  our  own  hand,  an  abridged  edition,  a  da- 
guerrotype  copy  of  the  world  without,  of  which  we  know  so 
little  and  so  much.  I  always  do  and  always  shall  read  the 
last  page  of  a  novel  first ;  and  if  I  perceive  there  any  indi- 
cations that  matters  are  not  coming  out  "  shipshape,"  my 
reading  invariably  terminates  with  the  last  page. 

For  the  rest,  please  to  remember  that  I  am  not  writing 
about  a  princess  of  the  blood,  nor  of  the  days  of  the  bold 
barons,  but  only  the  life  of  a  quiet  little  girl  in  a  quiet  little 
town  in  the  eastern  part  of  Massachusetts  ;  and  so  far  as 
my  experience  and  observation  go.  men  and  women  in  the 
eastern  part  of  Massachusetts  are  not  given  to  thrilling  ad- 
ventures, hairbreadth  escapes,  wonderful  concatenations  of 
circumstances,  and  blood  and  thunder  generally,  —  but  pur- 
sue the  even  tenor  of  their  way,  and  of  their  love,  with  a 


under  Difficulties.  113 

sober  and  delightful  equanimity.  If  you  want  a  plot,  go  to 
the  "  Children  of  the  Abbey,"  "  Consuelo,"  and  myriads  of 
that  kin,  and  help  yourself.  As  for  me,  I  must  confess  I 
hate  plots.  I  see  no  pleasure  in  stumbling  blindfolded 
through  a  story,  unable  to  see  a  yard  ahead,  fancying  every 
turn  to  be  the  last,  and  the  road  to  go  straight  on  to  a  glo- 
rious goal,  —  and,  lo  !  we  are  in  a  more  hopeless  labyrinth 
than  ever.  I  have  a  sense  of  restraint.  I  want  to  breathe 
freely,  and  cannot.  I  want  to  have  leisure  to  observe  the 
style,  the  development  of  character,  the  author's  tone  of 
thought,  and  not  be  galloped  through  on  the  back  of  a 
breathless  desire  to  know  "  how  they  are  coming  out." 

But,  my  dear  plot-loving  friend,  be  easy.  I  will  not  leave 
you  in  the  lurch.  I  am  not  going  to  marry  my  man  and 
woman  out  of  hand.  An  obstacle,  of  which  I  suppose  you 
have  never  heard,  —  an  obstacle  entirely  new,  fresh,  and 
unhackneyed,  will  arise  ;  so,  I  pray  you,  let  patience  have 
her  perfect  work. 

Wonderful  was  the  new  world  opened  to  Ivy  Geer.  It 
was  as  if  a  corse,  cold,  inert,  lifeless,  had  suddenly  sprung 
up,  warm,  invigorated,  informed  with  a  spirit  which  led  her 
own  spell-bound.  Grammar,  —  Grammar,  which  had  been 
a  synonyme  for  all  that  was  dry,  irksome,  useless,  —  a  beat- 
ing of  the  wind,  the  crackling  of  thorns  under  a  pot, — 
Grammar  even  assumed  for  her  a  charm,  a  wonder,  a  glory. 
She  saw  how  the  great  and  wise  had  shrined  in  fitting  words 
their  purity,  and  wisdom,  and  sorrow,  and  suffering,  and 
penitence  ;  and  how,  as  this  generation  passed  away,  and 
another  came  forth  which  knew  not  God,  the  golden  casket 
became  dim,  and  the  memory  of  its  priceless  gem  faded 
away  ;  but  how,  at  the  touch  of  a  mighty  wand,  the  obedi- 
ent lid  flew  back,  and  the  long-hidden  thought  "  sprang  full- 
statured  in  an  hour."  She  saw  how  love  and  beauty  and 
freedom  lay  floating  vaguely  and  aimlessly  in  a  million 
minds  till  the  poet  came  and  crystallized  them  into  clear-cut, 
prismatic  words,  tinged  for  each  with  the  color  of  his  own 
fancy,  and  wrought  into  a  perfect  mosaic,  not  for  an  age, 

H 


114  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

but  for  all  time.  Led  by  a  strong  hand,  she  trod  with  awe 
down  the  dim  aisles  of  the  Past,  and  saw  how  the  soul  of 
man,  bound  in  its  prison-house,  had  ever  struggled  to  voice 
itself  in  words.  Roaming  in  the  dense  forest  with  the  stern 
and  bloody  Druid,  —  bounding  over  the  waves  with  the 
fierce  pirates  who  supplanted  them,  and  in  whose  blue  eyes 
and  beneath  whose  fair  locks  gleamed  indeed  the  ferocity 
of  the  savage,  but  lurked  also,  though  unseen  and  unknown, 
the  tender  chivalry  of  the  English  gentleman,  —  gazing  ad- 
miringly on  the  barbaric  splendor  of  the  cloth-of-gold, 
whereon  trod  regally,  to  the  sound  of  harp  and  viol,  the 
beauty  and  bravery  of  the  old  Norman  nobility,  she  de- 
lighted to  see  how  the  mother-tongue,  our  dear  mother- 
tongue,  had  laid  all  the  nations  under  contribution  to  enrich 
her  treasury,  —  gathering  from  one  its  strength,  from  an- 
other its  stateliness,  from  a  third  its  harmony,  till  the  harsh, 
crude,  rugged  dialect  of  a  barbarous  horde  became  worthy 
to  embody,  as  it  does,  the  love,  the  wisdom,  and  the  faith 
of  half  a  world. 

So  Grammar  taught  Ivy  to  reverence  language. 

History,  in  the  light  of  a  guiding  mind,  ceased  to  be  a 
bare  record  of  slaughter  and  crime.  Before  her  eyes  filed, 
in  a  statelier  pageant  than  they  knew,  the  long  procession 
of  "  simple  great  ones  gone  forever  and  ever  by,"  and  the 
countless  lesser  ones  whose  names  are  quenched  in  the 
darkness  of  a  night  that  shall  know  no  dawn.  She  saw  the 
"great  world  spin  forever  down  the  ringing  grooves  of 
change  "  ;  but  amid  all  the  change,  the  confusion,  the  chaos, 
she  saw  the  finger  of  God  ever  pointing,  and  heard  the  sub- 
lime monotone  of  the  Divine  voice  ever  saying  to  the  chil- 
dren of  men,  "  This  is  the  way,  walk  ye  in  it."  And  Ivy 
thought  she  saw,  and  rejoiced  in  the  thought,  that,  even 
when  this  warning  was  unheeded,  —  when  on  the  brow  of 
the  mournful  Earth  "  Ichabod,  Ichabod,"  was  forever  en- 
graven, —  when  the  First  Man  with  his  own  hand  put  from 
him  the  cup  of  innocence,  and  went  forth  from  the  happy 
garden,  sin-stained  and  fallen,  the  whole  head  sick,  and  the 


under  Difficulties.  115 

whole  heart  faint,  —  even  then  she  saw  within  him  the  Di- 
vine spark,  the  leaven  of  life,  which  had  power  to  vitalize 
and  vivify  what  Crime  had  smitten  with  death.  Though 
sea  and  land  teemed  with  strange  perils,  though  night  and 
day  pursued  him  with  mysterious  terrors,  though  the  now 
unfriendly  elements  combined  to  check  his  career,  still,  with 
unswerving  purpose,  undaunted  courage,  she  saw  him  march 
constantly  forward.  Spirits  of  evil  could  not  drive  from  his 
heart  the  prescience  of  greatness  ;  and  his  soul  dwelt  calmly 
under  the  foreshadow  of  a  mighty  future. 

And  as  Ivy  looked,  she  saw  how  the  children  of  men  be- 
came a  great  nation,  and  possessed  the  land  far  and  wide. 
They  delved  into  the  bosom  of  the  pleased  earth,  and  brought 
forth  the  piled-up  treasures  of  uncounted  cycles.  They  un- 
folded the  book  of  the  skies,  and  sought  to  read  the  records 
thereon.  They  plunged  into  the  unknown  and  terrible 
ocean,  and  decked  their  own  brows  with  the  gems  they 
plucked  from  hers.  And  when  conquered  Nature  had  laid 
her  hoards  at  their  feet,  their  restless  longings  would  not  be 
satisfied.  Brave  young  spirits,  with  the  dew  of  their  youth 
fresh  upon  them,  set  out  in  quest  of  a  land  beyond  their  ken. 
Over  the  mountains,  across  the  seas,  through  the  forests, 
there  came  to  the  ear  of  the  dreaming  girl  the  measured 
tramp  of  marching  men,  the  softer  footfalls  of  loving  women, 
the  pattering  of  the  feet  of  little  children.  Many  a  day  and 
many  a  night  she  saw  them  wander  on  towards  the  setting 
sun,  till  the  Unseen  Hand  led  them  to  a  fair  and  fruitful 
country  that  opened  its  bounteous  arms  in  welcome.  Broad 
rivers,  green  fields,  laughing  valleys  wooed  them  to  plant 
their  household  gods,  —  and  the  foundations  of  Europe  were 
laid.  Here  were  sown  the  seeds  of  those  heroic  virtues 
which  have  since  leaped  into  luxuriant  life,  —  seeds  of  that 
irresistible  power  which  fastened  its  grasp  on  Nature,  and 
forced  her  to  unfold  the  secret  of  her  creation,  —  seeds  of 
that  far-reaching  wisdom  which  in  the  light  of  the  unveiled 
past  has  read  the  story  of  the  unseen  future. 

And  still  under   Ivy's    eye    they   grouped    themselves. 


n6  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

Some  gathered  on  the  pleasant  hills  of  the  sunny  South, 
and  the  beauty  of  earth  and  sea  and  sky  passed  into  their 
souls  forever.  They  caught  the  evanescent  gleam,  the 
passing  shadow,  and  on  unseemly  canvas  limned  it  for  all 
time  In  forms  of  unuttered  and  unutterable  loveliness. 
They  shaped  into  glowing  life  the  phantoms  of  grace  that 
were  always  flitting  before  their  enchanted  eyes,  and  poured 
into  inanimate  marble  their  rapt  and  passionate  souls. 
They  struck  the  lyre  to  wild  and  stirring  songs  whose  trem- 
ulous echoes  still  linger  along  the  corridors  of  Time.  Some 
sought  the  ice-bound  North,  and  grappled  with  dangers  by 
field  and  flood.  They  hunted  the  wild  dragon  to  his  moun- 
tain-fastnesses, and  fought  him  at  bay,  and  never  quailed. 
Death,  in  its  most  fearful  forms,  they  met  with  grim  delight, 
and  chanted  the  glories  of  the  Valhalla  waiting  for  heroes 
who  should  forever  quaff  the  "  foaming,  pure,  and  shining 
mead  "  from  skulls  of  foes  in  battle  slain.  Some  crossed 
the  sea,  and  on 

"  that  pale,  that  white-faced  shore, 
Whose  foot  spurns  back  the  ocean's  swelling  tide," 

they  reared  a  sinewy  and  stalwart  race,  "  whose  morning 
drum-beat  encircles  the  world." 

And  History  taught  Ivy  to  reverence  man. 

But  there  was  one  respect  in  which  Ivy  was  both  pupil 
and  teacher.  Never  a  word  of  Botany  had  fallen  upon  her 
ears  ;  but  through  all  the  unconscious  bliss  of  infancy,  child- 
hood, and  girlhood,  for  sixteen  happy  years,  she  had  lived 
among  the  flowers,  and  she  knew  their  dear  faces  and  their 
wild-wood  names.  She  loved  them  with  an  almost  human 
love.  They  were  to  her  companions  and  friends.  She  knew 
their  likings  and  dislikings,  their  joys  and  sorrows,  —  who 
among  them  chose  the  darkest  nooks  of  the  old  woods,  and 
who  bloomed  only  to  the  brightest  sunlight,  —  who  sent 
their  roots  deep  down  among  the  mosses  by  the  brook,  and 
who  smiled  only  on  the  southern  hillside.  Around  each  she 
wove  a  web  of  beautiful  individuality,  and  more  than  one 


under  Difficulties.  1 1 7 

had  received  from  her  a  new  christening.  It  is  true,  that, 
when  she  came  to  study  from  a  book,  she  made  wry  faces 
over  the  long,  barbarous,  Latin  names  which  completely 
disguised  her  favorites,  and  in  her  heart  deemed  a  great 
many  of  the  definitions  quite  superfluous  ;  but  she  had 
strong  faith  in  her  teacher,  and  when  the  technical  was  laid 
aside  for  the  real,  then,  indeed,  "  her  foot  was  on  her  native 
heath,  and  her  name  was  MacGregor."  A  wild  and  merry 
chase  she  led  her  grave  instructor.  Morning,  noon,  or 
night,  she  was  always  ready.  Under  the  blue  sky,  breathing 
the  pure  air,  treading  the  green  turf  familiar  from  her  in- 
fancy, she  could  not  be  otherwise  than  happy  ;  but  when 
was  superadded  to  this  the  companionship  of  a  mind  vigor- 
ous, cultivated,  and  refined,  she  enjoyed  it  with  a  keen  and 
intense  delight.  Nowhere  else  did  her  soul  so  entirely  un- 
fold to  the  genial  light  of  this  new  sun  which  had  suddenly 
mounted  above  her  horizon.  Nowhere  else  did  the  freshness 
and  fulness  and  splendor  of  life  dilate  her  whole  being  with 
a  fine  ecstasy. 

And  what  was  the  end  of  all  this  ?  Just  what  you  would 
have  supposed.  She  had  led  a  life  of  simple,  unbounded 
love  and  trust,  —  a  buoyant,  elastic  gladness,  —  a  dream  of 
sunshine.  No  gray  cloud  had  ever  lowered  in  her  sky,  no 
thunderbolt  smitten  her  joys,  no  winter  rain  chilled  her 
warmth.  Only  the  white  fleeciness  of  morning  mist  had 
flitted  sometimes  over  her  summer-sky,  deepening  the  blue. 
Little  cooling  drops  had  .fluttered  down  through  the  leafi- 
ness,  only  to  span  her  with  a  rainbow  in  the  glory  of  the  set- 
ting sun.  But  the  time  had  come.  From  the  deep  foun- 
tains of  her  heart  the  stone  was  to  be  rolled  away.  The 
secret  chord  was  to  be  smitten  by  a  master-hand,  —  a  chord 
which,  once  stirred,  may  never  cease  to  quiver. 

At  first  Ivy  worshipped  very  far  off.  Her  friend  was  to 
her  the  embodiment  of  all  knowledge  and  goodness  and 
greatness.  She  marvelled  to  see  him  so  at  home  in  what 
was  to  her  so  strange.  Every  word  that  fell  from  his  lips 
was  an  oracle.  She  secretly  contrasted  him  with  all  the  men 


1 1 8  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

she  had  ever  met,  to  the  utter  discomfiture  of  the  latter. 
Washington,  the  Apostle  Paul,  and  Peter  Parley  were  the 
only  men  of  the  past  or  present  whom  she  considered  at  all 
worthy  to  be  compared  with  him  ;  and  in  fact,  if  these  three 
men  and  Felix  Clerron  had  all  stood  before  her,  and  offered 
each  a  different  opinion  on  any  given  subject,  I  have 
scarcely  a  doubt  as  to  whose  would  have  commended  itself 
to  her  as  combining  the  soundest  practical  wisdom  and  the 
highest  Christian  benevolence. 

So  the  summer  passed  on,  and  her  shyness  wore  off,  — 
and  their  intimacy  became  less  and  less  that  of  teacher  and 
pupil,  and  more  and  more  that  of  friend  and  friend.  With 
the  sudden  awakening  of  her  intellectual  nature,  there  woke 
also  another  power,  of  whose  existence  she  had  never 
dreamed.  It  was  natural,  that,  in  ranging  the  fields  of 
thought  so  lately  opened  to  her,  she  should  often  revert  to 
him  whose  hand  had  unbarred  the  gates  ;  she  was  therefore 
not  startled  that  the  image  of  Felix  Clerron  was  with  her 
when  she  sat  down  and  when  she  rose  up,  when  she  went 
out  and  when  she  came  in.  She  ceased,  indeed,  to  think 
0/"him.  She  thought  him.  She  lived  him.  Her  soul  fed 
on  his  life.  And  so  —  and  so  —  by  a  pleasant  and  flowery 
path,  there  came  into  Ivy's  heSirt  the  old,  old  pain. 

Now  the  thing  was  on  this  wise  :  — 

One  morning,  when  she  went  to  recite,  she  did  not  find 
Mr.  Clerron  in  the  library,  where  he  usually  awaited  her. 
After  spending  a  few  moments  in  looking  over  her  lessons, 
she  rose  and  was  about  to  pass  to  the  door  to  ring,  when 
Mrs.  Simm  looked  in,  and,  seeing  Ivy,  informed  her  that 
Mr.  Clerron  was  in  the  garden,  and  desired  her  to  come 
out.  Ivy  immediately  followed  Mrs.  Simm  into  the  garden. 
On  the  south  side  of  the  house  was  a  piazza  two  stories  high. 
Along  the  pillars  which  supported  it  a  trellis-work  had  been 
constructed,  reaching  several  feet  above  the  roof  of  the 
piazza.  About  this  climbed  a  vigorous  grape-vine,  which 
not  only  completely  screened  nearly  the  whole  front  of  the 
piazza,  but,  reaching  the  top  of  the  trellis,  shot  across,  by 


under  Difficulties.  119 

the  aid  of  a  few  pieces  of  fine  wire,  and  overran  a  part  of 
the  roof  of  the  house.  Thus  the  roof  of  the  piazza  was  the 
floor  of  a  beautiful  apartment,  whose  walls  and  ceiling  were 
broad,  rustling,  green  leaves,  among  which  drooped  now 
innumerable  heavy  clusters  of  rich  purple  grapes. 

From  behind  this  leafy  wall  a  well-known  voice  cried, 
"  All  hail,  my  twining  vine  !  "  Ivy  turned  and  looked  up, 
with  the  uncertain,  inquiring  smile  we  often  wear  when  con- 
scious that,  though  unseeing,  we  are  not  unseen  ;  and  pres- 
ently two  hands  parted  the  leaves  far  enough  for  a  very 
sunshiny  smile  to  gleam  down  on  the  upturned  face. 

"  O,  I  wish  I  could  come  up  there !  "  cried  Ivy,  clasping 
her  hands  with  childish  eagerness. 

"  The  wish  is  father  to  the  deed." 

"  May  I  ?  " 

"  Be  sure  you  may." 

"  But  how  shall  I  get  in  ?  " 

"  Are  you  afraid  to  come  up  the  ladder  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't  mean  that ;  but  how  shall  I  get  in  where 
you  are,  after  I  am  up  ?  " 

"  O,  never  fear  !  I  '11  draw  you  in  safely  enough." 

"  Lorful  heart !  Miss  Ivy,  what  are  you  "going  to  do  ?" 
cried  Mrs.  Simm,  in  terror. 

Ivy  was  already  on  the  third  round  of  the  ladder,  but  she 
stopped  and  answered,  hesitatingly,  — 

"  He  said  I  might." 

"  He  said  you  might,  yes,"  continued  Mrs.  Simm,  —  talk- 
ing to  Ivy,  but  at  Mr.  Clerron,  with  whom  she  hardly  dared 
to  remonstrate  in  a  more  direct  way.  "  And  if  he  said  you 
might  throw  yourself  down  Vineyard  Cliff,  it  don't  follow 
that  you  are  bound  to  do  it.  He  goes  into  all  sorts  of  hap- 
hazard scrapes  himself,  but  you  can't  follow  him." 

"  But  it  looks  so  nice  up  there,"  pleaded  Ivy,  "  and  I  have 
been  twice  as  high  at  home.  I  don't  mind  it  at  all." 

"If  your  father  chooses  to  let  you  run  the  risk  of  your 
life,  it 's  none  of  my  lookout,  but  I  a'n't  going  to  have  you 
breaking  your  neck  right  under  my  nose.  If  ^ou  want  to 


I2O  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

get  up  there,  I  '11  show  you  the  way  in  the  house,  and  you 
can  step  right  out  of  the  window.  Just  wait  till  I  Ve  told 
Ellen  about  the  dinner." 

As  Mrs.  Simm  disappeared,  Mr.  Clerron  said  softly  to 
Ivy,  "  Come  !  "  —  and  in  a  moment  Ivy  bounded  up  the 
ladder  and  through  an  opening  in  the  vine,  and  stood  by 
his  side. 

"  I  'm  ready  now,  Miss  Ivy,"  said  Mrs.  Simm,  reappear- 
ing. "  Miss  Ivy  !  Where  is  the  child  ?  " 

A  merry  laugh  greeted  her. 

"  O,  you  good-for-nothing  !  "  cried  the  good-natured  old 
housekeeper,  "  you  '11  never  die  in  your  bed." 

"  Not  for  a  good  while,  I  hope,"  answered  Mr.  Clerron. 

Then  he  made  Ivy  sit  down  by  him,  and  took  from  the 
great  basket  the  finest  cluster  of  grapes. 

"Is  that  reward  enough  for  coming  ?  " 

"  Coming  into  so  beautiful  a  place  as  this  is  like  what  you 
read  yesterday  about  poetry  to  Coleridge,  '  its  own  exceed- 
ing great  reward.' " 

"  And  you  don't  want  the  grapes  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have  any  intrinsic  objection  to  them 
as  a  free  gift,  it  was  only  the  principle  that  I  opposed." 

"  Very  well,  we  will  go  shares,  then.  You  may  have  half 
for  the  free  gift,  and  I  will  have  half  for  the  principle.  Little 
tendril,  you  look  as  fresh  as  the  morning." 

"Don't  I  always?" 

"  I  should  say  there  was  a  little  more  dew  than  usual. 
Stand  up  and  let  me  survey  you,  if  perchance  I  may  discover 
the  cause." 

Ivy  rose,  made  a  profound  courtesy,  and  then  turned 
slowly  around,  after  the  manner  of  the  revolving  fashion- 
figures  in  a  milliner's  window. 

"  I  don't  know,"  continued  Mr.  Clerron,  when  Ivy,  after  a 
couple  of  revolutions,  resumed  her  seat.  "  You  seem  to  be 
the  same.  I  think  it  must  be  the  frock." 

"  I  don't  wear  a  frock.  I  don't  think  it  would  improve 
my  style  ofrbeauty  if  I  did.  Papa  wears  one  sometimes." 


under  Difficulties.  121 

"  And  what  kind  of  a  frock,  pray,  does  '  papa '  wear  ?  " 

"  O,  a  horrid  blue  thing.  Comes  about  down  to  his 
knees.  Made  of  some  kind  of  woollen  stuff.  Horrid  !  " 

"  And  what  name  do  you  give  to  that  white  thing  with 
blue  sprays  in  it  ?  " 

"This?" 

"Yes." 

"  This  is  a  dress." 

"  No.  This,  and  your  collar,  and  hat,  and  shoes,  and  sash 
are  your  dress.  This  is  a  frock." 

Ivy  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"  You  know  a  great  deal,  I  know." 

"  So  you  informed  me  once  before." 

"  O,  don't  mention  that !  "  said  Ivy,  blushing,  and  quickly 
added,  "  Do  you  know  I  have  discovered  the  reason  why 
you  like  me  this  morning  ? " 

"  And  every  morning." 

"  Sir  ?  " 

"  Go  on.     What  is  the  reason  ? " 

"  It  is  because  I  clear-starched  and  ironed  it  myself  with 
my  owny-dony  hands  ;  and  that,  you  know,  is  the  reason  it 
looks  nicer  than  usual." 

"  Ah  me  !    I  wish  I  wore  dresses." 

"  You  can,  if  you  choose,  I  suppose.  •  There  is  no  one  to 
hinder  you." 

"  Simpleton  !  that  is  not  what  you  were  intended  to  say. 
You  should  have  asked  the  cause  of  so  singular  a  wish,  and 
then  I  had  a  pretty  little  speech  all  ready  for  you,  —  a  verit- 
able compliment." 

"  It  is  well  I  did  not  ask,  then.  Mamma  does  not  approve 
of  compliments,  and  perhaps  it  would  have  made  me  vain." 

"  Incorrigible  !  Why  did  you  not  ask  me  what  the  speech 
was,  and  thus  give  me  an  opportunity  to  relieve  myself. 
Why,  a  body  might  die  of  a  plethora  of  flattery,  if  he  had 
nobody  but  you  to  discharge  it  against." 

"He  must  take  care,  then,  that  the  supply  does  not  ex- 
ceed the  demand." 
6 


122  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

"  Political  economy,  upon  my  word  !  What  shall  we  have 
next?" 

"  Domestic,  I  suppose  you  would  like.  Men  generally, 
indeed,  prefer  it  to  the  other,  I  am  told." 

"  Ah,  Ivy,  Ivy  !  little  you  know  about  men,  my  child  !  " 

He  leaned  back  in  his  seat  and  was  silent  for  some  min- 
utes. Ivy  did  not  care  to  interrupt  his  thinking.  Presently 
he  said,  — 

"  Ivy,  how  old  are  you?" 

"  I  shall  be  seventeen  the  last  day  of  this  month." 

A  short  pause. 

"And  then  eighteen." 

"  And  then  nineteen." 

"  And  then  twenty.     In  three  years  you  will  be  twenty." 

"Horrid  old,  is  n't  it?" 

He  turned  his  head,  and  looked  down  upon  her  with  what 
Ivy  thought  a  curious  kind  of  smile,  but  only  said,  — 

"  You  must  not  say  '  horrid '  so  much." 

By  and  by  Ivy  grew  rather  tired  of  sitting  silent  and 
watching  the  rustle  of  the  leaves,  which  hid  every  other 
prospect ;  she  turned  a  little  so  that  she  could  look  at  him. 
He  sat  with  folded  arms,  looking  straight  ahead  ;  and  she 
thought  his  face  wore  a  troubled  expression.  She  felt  as  if 
she  would  like  very  much  to  smooth  out  the  wrinkles  in  his 
forehead  and  run  her  fingers  through  his  hair,  as  she  some- 
times did  for  her  father.  She  had  a  great  mind  to  ask  him 
if  she  should  ;  then  she  reflected  that  it  might  make  him 
nervous.  Then  she  wondered  if  he  had  forgotten  her  les- 
sons, and  how  long  they  were  to  sit  there.  Determined,  at 
length,  to  have  a  change  of  some  kind,  she  said,  softly,  — 

"  Mr.  Clerron  !  " 

He  roused  himself  suddenly,  and  stood  up. 

"  I  thought,  perhaps,  you  had  a  headache." 

"  No,  Ivy.  But  this  is  not  climbing  the  hill  of  science,  is 
it?" 

"  Not  so  much  as  it  is  climbing  the  piazza." 

"  Suppose  we  take  a  vacation  to-day,  and  investigate  the 
state  of  the  atmosphere  ?  " 


under  Difficulties.  123 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am  ready." 

Ivy  did  not  fully  understand  the  nature  of  his  proposi- 
tion ;  but  if  he  had  proposed  to  "  put  a  girdle  round  the 
earth  in  forty  minutes,"  she  would  have  said  and  acted, 
"  Yes,  sir,  I  am  ready,"  just  the  same. 

He  took  up  the  basket  of  grapes  which  he  had  gathered, 
and  led  the  way  through  the  window,  down-stairs.  Ivy 
waited  for  him  at  the  hall-door,  while  he  carried  the  grapes 
to  Mrs.  Simm  ;  then  he  joined  her  again  and  proposed  to 
walk  through  the  woods  a  little  while,  before  Ivy  went 
home. 

"  You  must  know,  my  docile  pupil,  that  I  am  going  to  the 
city  to-morrow,  on  business,  to  be  gone  a  week  or  two.  So, 
as  you  must  perforce  take  a  vacation  then,  why,  we  may  as 
well  begin  to  vacate  to-day,  and  enjoy  it." 

•"  I  am  sorry  you  are  going  away." 

"  You  are  ?  That  is  almost  enough  to  pay  me  for  going. 
Why  are  you  sorry  ? " 

"  Because  I  shall  not  see  you  for  a  week  ;  and  I  have  be- 
come so  used  to  you,  that  somehow  I  don't  seem  to  know 
what  to  do  with  a  day  without  you  ;  and  then  the  cars  may 
run  off  the  track  and  kill  you  or  hurt  you,  or  you  may  get 
the  small-pox,  or  a  great  many  things  may  happen." 

"  And  suppose  some  of  these  terrible  things  should  hap- 
pen, —  the  last,  for  instance,  —  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  ?    I  should  advise  you  to  send  for  the  doctor  at  once." 

Mr.  Clerron  laughed. 

"  So  you  would  not  come  and  nurse  me,  and  take  care  of 
me,  and  get  me  well  again  ?  " 

"  No,  because  I  should  then  be  in  danger  of  taking  it 
myself  and  giving  it  to  papa  and  mamma ;  besides,  they 
would  not  let  me,  I  am  quite  sure." 

"  So  you  love  your  papa  and  mamma  better  than  —  " 

He  stopped  abruptly.     Ivy  finished  for  him. 

"  Better  than  words  can  tell.  Papa  particularly.  Mam- 
ma, somehow,  seems  strong  of  herself,  and  does  n't  depend 
upon  me  ;  but  papa,  —  O,  you  don't  know  how  he  is  to  me  ! 


124-  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

I  think,  if  I  should  die,  he  would  die  of  grief.  I  have,  I 
cannot  help  having,  a  kind  of  pity /or  him,  he  loves  me  so." 

"Do  you  always  pity  people,  when  they  love  you  very 
much  ?  " 

"  O  no  !  of  course  not.  Besides,  nobody  loves  me  enough 
to  be  pitied,  except  -papa;  —  Isn't  it  pleasant  here  ?  How 
very  green  it  is  !  It  looks  just  like  summer.  O  Mr.  Cler- 
ron,  did  you  see  the  clouds  this  morning  ?  " 

"  There  were  none,  when  I  arose." 

"  Why,  yes,  sir,  there  was  a  great  heap  of  them  at  sun- 
rise." 

"  I  am  not  prepared  to  contradict  you." 

"  Perhaps  you  were  not  up  at  sunrise." 

"  I  have  an  impression  to  that  effect." 

He  smiled  so  comically,  that  Ivy  could  not  help  saying, 
though  she  was  half  afraid  he  might  not  be  pleased,  —  ' 

"  I  wonder  whether  you  are  an  early  riser." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  consider  myself  tolerably  early.  I  be- 
lieve I  have  been  up  every  morning  but  one,  this  week,  by 
nine  o'clock." 

Ivy  was  horror-struck.  Her  country  ideas  of  "  early  to 
bed  and  early  to  rise  "  received  a  great  shock,  as  her  looks 
plainly  showed.  He  laughed  gayly  at  her  amazed  face. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  appreciate  me,  Miss  Geer." 

"  '  Nine  o'clock ' !  "  repeated  Ivy,  slowly,  —  " f  every  morn- 
ing but  one ' !  and  it  is  Tuesday  to-day." 

"  Yes,  but  you  know  yesterday  was  a  dark,  cloudy  day, 
and  excellent  for  sleeping." 

"  But,  Mr.  Clerron,  then  you  are  not  more  than  fairly  up 
when  I  come.  And  when  do  you  write  ?  " 

"  Always  in  the  evening." 

"  But  the  evenings  are  so  short,  —  or  have  been." 

"  Mine  are  not  particularly  so.  From  six  to  three  is 
about  long  enough  for  one  sitting." 

"  I  should  think  so.     And  you  must  be  so  tired  !  " 

"  Not  so  tired  as  you  think.  You,  now,  rising  at  five  or 
six,  and  running  round  all  day,  become  so  tired  that  you 


under  Difficulties.  125 

have  to  go  to  bed  by  nine  ;  of  course  you  have  no  time  for 
reflection  and  meditation.  I,  on  the  contrary,  take  life  easi- 
ly, —  write  in  the  night,  when  everything  is  still  and  quiet, 
—  take  my  sleep  when  all  the  noise  of  the  world's  waking- 
up  is  going  on,  —  and  after  creation  is  fairly  settled  for  the 
day,  I  rise  leisurely,  breakfast  leisurely,  take  a  smoke  lei- 
surely, and  leisurely  wait  the  coming  of  my  little  pupil." 

"  Mr.  Clerron  !  " 

"  Well ! " 

"  May  I  tell  you  another  thing  I  don't  like,  in  you  ?  a  bad 
habit  ?  " 

"  As  many  as  you  please,  provided  you  won't  require  me 
to  reform." 

"  What  is  the  use  of  telling  it,  then  ?  " 

"  But  it  may  be  a  relief  to  you.  You  will  have  the  satis- 
faction arising  from  doing  your  duty.  We  shall  exchange 
opinions,  and  perhaps  come  to  a  better  understanding;  Go 
on." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  wish  you  did  not  smoke  so  much." 

"  I  don't  smoke  very  much,  little  Ivy." 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  at  all.  Mamma  thinks  it  is  very 
injurious,  and  wrong,  even.  And  papa  says  cigars  are  bad 
things." 

"  Some  of  them  are  outrageous.  But,  my  dear,  granting 
your  father  and  mother  and  yourself  to  be  right,  don't  you 
see  I  am  doing  more  to  extirpate  the  evil  than  you,  with  all 
your  principle  ?  I  exterminate,  destroy,  and  ruin  them  at 
the  rate  of  three  a  day  ;  while  you,  I  venture  to  say,  never 
lifted  a  finger  or  lighted  a  spark  against  them." 

"  Now,  sir,  that  is  only  a  way  of  slipping  round  the  ques- 
tion. And  I  really  wish  you  did  not.  Before  I  knew  you, 
I  thought  it  was  almost  as  bad  to  smoke  as  it  was  to  steal, 
I  know,  however,  now,  that  it  cannot  be  ;  still  —  " 

"  Feminine  logic." 

"  I  have  not  studied  Logic  yet ;  still,  as  I  was  going  to 
say,  sir,  I  don't  like  to  think  of  you  as  being  in  a  kind  of 
subjection  to  anything." 


126  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

"  Ivy,  seriously,  I  am  not  in  subjection  to  a  cigar.  I  often 
don't  smoke  for  months  together.  To  prove  it,  I  promise 
you  I  won't  smoke  for  the  next  two  months." 

"  O,  I  am  so  glad  !  O,  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you  ! 
And  you  are  not  in  the  least  vexed  that  I  spoke  to  you  about 
it?" 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  I  was  afraid  you  would  be.  And  one  thing  more,  sir,  I 
have  been  afraid  of,  the  last  few  days.  You  know  when  I 
first  knew  you,  or  before  I  knew  you,  I  supposed  you  did 
nothing  but  walk  round  and  enjoy  yourself  all  day.  But 
now  I  know  you  do  work  very  hard  ;  and  I  have  feared  that 
you  could  not  well  spare  two  hours  every  day  for  me,  —  par- 
ticularly in  the  morning,  which  are  almost  always  consid- 
ered the  best.  But  if  you  like  to  write  in  the  evening,  you 
would  just  as  soon  I  would  come  in  the  morning  ? " 

"  Certainly." 

"  But  if  two  hours  are  too  much,  I  hope  you  won't,  at  any 
time,  hesitate  to  tell  me.  I  have  no  claim  on  a  moment,  — 
only—" 

"  My  dear  Ivy  Geer,  pupil  and  friend,  be  so  good  as  to 
understand,  henceforth,  that  you  cannot  possibly  come  into 
my  house  at  any  time  when  you  are  not  wanted  ;  nor  stay 
any  longer  than  I  want  you  ;  nor  say  anything  that  will  not 
please  me  ;  —  well,  I  am  not  quite  sure  about  that ;  —  but, 
at  least,  remember  that  I  am  always  glad  to  see  you,  and 
teach  you,  and  have  you  with  me  ;  and  that  I  can  never 
hope  to  do  you  as  much  good  as  you  do  me  every  day  of 
your  blessed  life." 

"  O  Mr.  Clerron  ! "  exclaimed  Ivy,  with  a  great  gush  of 
gratitude  and  happiness  ;  ."  do  I,  can  I,  &v  you  any  good  ?" 

"  You  do  and  can,  my  tendril  !  You  supply  an  element 
that  was  wanting  in  my  life.  You  make  every  day  beautiful 
to  me.  The  flutter  of  your  robes  among  these  trees  brings 
sunshine  into  my  heart.  Every  morning  I  walk  in  my  gar- 
den as  soon  as  I  am,  as  you  say,  fairly  up,  till  I  see  you 
turn  into  the  lane ;  and  every  day  I  watch  you  till  you  dis- 


under  Difficulties.  127 

appear.  You  are  fresh  and  truthful  and  natural,  and  you 
give  me  new  life.  And  now,  my  dear  little  trembling  bene- 
factor, because  we  are  nearly  through  the  woods,  I  can  go 
no  farther  with  you  ;  and  because  I  am  going  away  to- 
morrow, not  to  see  you  again  for  a  week,  and  because  I  hope 
you  will  be  a  little  lonesome  while  I  am  gone,  why,  I  think 
I  must  let  you  —  kiss  me  !  " 

Ivy  had  been  looking  intently  into  his  face,  with  an  ex- 
pression, at -first,  of  the  most  beaming,  tearful  delight,  then 
gradually  changing  into  waiting  wonder  ;  but  when  his  sen- 
tence finally  closed,  she  stood  still,  scarcely  able  to  compre- 
hend. He  placed  his  hands  on  her  temples,  and,  smiling 
involuntarily  at  her  blushes  and  embarrassment,  half  in 
sport  and  half  in  tenderness,  bent  her  head  a  little  back, 
touched  brow,  cheeks,  and  lips,  whispered  softly,  "  Go  now  ! 
God  bless  you  for  ever  andf  ever,  my  darling  !  "  and,  turning 
walked  hastily  down  the  winding  path.  As  for  Ivy,  she  went 
home  in  a  dream,  blind  and  stunned  with  a  great  joy. 

The  week  of  Mr.  Clerron's  absence  passed  away  more 
quickly  than  Ivy  had  supposed  it  would.  The  reason  for 
this  may  be  found  in  the  fact  that  her  thoughts  were  very 
busily  occupied.  She  was  more  silent  than  usual,  so  much 
so  that  her  father  one  day  said  to  her,  —  "Ivy,  I  haven't 
heard  you  sing  this  long  while,  and  seems  to  me  you  don't 
talk  either.  What 's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Do  I  look  as  if  anything  was  the  matter  ?  "  and  the  face 
she  turned  upon  him  was  so  radiant,  that  even  the  father's 
heart  was  satisfied. 

Very  quietly  happy  was  Ivy  to  think  she  was  of  service 
to  Mr.  Clerron,  that  she  could  give  him  pleasure,  —  though 
she  could  in  no  wise  understand  how  it  was.  She  went 
over  every  event  since  her  acquaintance  with  him  ;  she  felt 
how  much  he  had  done  for  her,  and  how  much  he  had  been 
to  her ;  but  she  sought  in  vain  to  discover  how  she  had 
been  of  any  use  to  him.  She  only  knew  that  she  was  the 
most  ignorant  and  insignificant  girl  in  the  whole  world,  and 
that  he  was  the  best  and  greatest  man.  As  this  was  very 


128  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

nearly  the  same  conclusion  at  which  she  had  arrived  at  an 
early  period  of  their  acquaintance,  it  cannot  be  said  that 
her  week  of  reflection  was  productive  of  any  very  valuable 
results. 

The  day  before  Mr.  Clerron's  expected  return,  Ivy  sat 
down  to  prepare  her  lessons,  and  for  the  first  time  remem- 
bered that  she  had  left  her  books  in  Mr.  Clerron's  library. 
She  was  not  sorry  to  have  so  good  an  excuse  for  visiting 
the  familiar  room,  though  its  usual  occupant  was  not  there 
to  welcome  her.  Very  quietly  and  joyfully  happy,  she  trod 
slowly  along  the  path  through  the  woods  where  she  last 
walked  with  Mr.  Clerron.  She  was,  indeed,  at  a  loss  to 
know  why  she  was  so  calm.  Always  before,  a  sudden  in- 
flux of  joy  testified  itself  by  very  active  demonstrations. 
She  was  quite  sure  that  she  had  never  in  her  life  been  so 
happy  as  now ;  yet  she  never  had  felt  less  disposed  to  leap 
and  dance  and  sing.  The  non-solution  of  the  problem, 
however,  did  not  ruffle  her  serenity.  She  was  content  to 
accept  the  facts,  and  await  patiently  the  theory. 

Arriving  at  the  house,  she  went,  as  usual,  into  the  library 
without  ringing,  —  but,  not  finding  the  books,  proceeded  in 
search  of  Mrs.  Simm.  That  notable  lady  was  sitting  be- 
hind a  huge  pile  of  clean  clothes,  sorting  and  mending  to 
her  heart's  content.  She  looked  up  over  her  spectacles  at 
Ivy's  bright  "  good  morning,"  and  invited  her  to  come  in. 
Ivy  declined,  and  begged  to  know  if  Mrs.  Simm  had  seen 
her  books.  To  be  sure  she  had,  like  the  good  housekeeper 
that  she  was.  "  You  '11  find  them  in  the  book-case,  second 
shelf;  but,  Miss  Ivy,  I  wish  you  would  come  in,  for  I've 
had  something  on  my  mind  that  I  Ve  felt  to  tell  you  this 
long  while." 

Ivy  came  in,  took  the  seat  opposite  Mrs.  Simm,  and 
waited  for  her  to  speak ;  but  Mrs.  Simm  seemed  to  be  in 
no  hurry  to  speak.  She  dropped  her  glasses ;  Ivy  picked 
them  up  and  handed  them  to  her.  She  muttered  something 
about  the  destructive  habits  of  men,  especially  in  regard  to 
buttons ;  and  presently,  as  if  determined  to  come  to  the 
subject  at  once,  abruptly  exclaimed,  — 


under  Difficulties.  129 

"  Miss  Ivy,  you  're  a  real  good  girl,  I  know,  and  as  in- 
nocent as  a  lamb.  That 's  why  I  'm  going  to  talk  to  you  as 
I  do.  I  know,  if  you  were  my  child,  I  should  want  some- 
body to  do  the  same  by  you." 

Ivy  could  only  stare  in  blank  astonishment.  After  a 
moment's  pause,  Mrs.  Simm  continued,  — 

"  I  've  seen  how  things  have  been  going  on  for  some  time ; 
but  my  mouth  was  shut,  though  my  eyes  were  open.  I 
did  n't  know  but  maybe  I  'd  better  speak  to  your  mother 
about  it ;  but  then,  thinks  I  to  myself,  she  '11  think  it  is  a 
great  deal  worse  than  it  is,  and  then,  like  enough,  there  '11  be 
a  rumpus.  So  I  concluded,  on  the  whole,  I  'd  just  tell  you 
what  I  thought ;  and  I  know  you  are  a  sensible  girl  and 
will  take  it  all  right.  Now  you  must  promise  me  not  to  get 
mad." 

"  No,"  gasped  Ivy. 

"  I  like  you  a  sight.  It's  no  flattery,  but  the  truth,  to  say 
•  I  think  you  're  as  pretty-behaved  a  girl  as  you  '11  find  in  a 
thousand.  And  all  the  time  you  Ve  been  here,  I  never  have 
known  you  to  do  a  thing  you  had  n't  ought  to.  And  Mr. 
Clerron  thinks  so  too,  and  there's  the  trouble.  -You  see, 
dear,  he's  a  man,  and  men  go  on  their  ways  and  like 
women,  and  talk  to  them,  and  sort  of  bewitch  them,  not 
meaning  to  do  them  any  hurt,  —  and  enjoy  their  company 
of  an  evening,  and  go  about  their  own  business  in  the 
morning,  and  never  think  of  it  again  ;  but  women  stay  at 
home,  and  brood  over  it,  and  think  there's  something  in 
it,  and  build  a  fine  air-castle,  —  and  when  they  find  it 's  all 
smoke,  they  mope  and  pine  and  take  on.  Now  that 's  what 
I  don 't  want  you  to  do.  Perhaps  you  'd  think  I  'd  better 
have  spoken  with  Mr.  Clerron  ;  but  it  would  n't  signify  the 
head  of  a  pin.  He  'd  either  put  on  the  Clerron  look  and 
scare  you  to  death  and  not  say  a  word,  or  else  he  'd  hold 
it  up  in  such  a  ridiculous  way  as  to  make  you  think  it  was 
ridiculous  yourself.  And  I  thought  I  'd  put  you  on  your 
guard  a  little,  so  as  you  need  n't  fall  in  love  with  him. 
You  '11  like  him,  of  course.  He  likes  you ;  but  a  young 
6*  .  i 


130  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

girl  like  you  might  make  a  mistake,  if  she  was  ever  so 
modest  and  sweet,  —  and  nobody  could  be  modester  or 
sweeter  than  you,  —  and  think  a  man  loved  you  to  marry 
you,  when  he  only  pets  and  plays  with  you.  Not  that  Mr. 
Clerron  means  to  do  anything  wrong.  He'd  be  perfectly 
miserable  himself,  if  he  thought  he  'd  led  you  on.  There 
ain't  a  more  honorable  man  every  way  in  the  whole  coun- 
try. Now,  Miss  Ivy,  it 's  all  for  your  good  I  say  this.  I 
don  't  find  fault  with  you,  not  a  bit.  It 's  only  to  save  you 
trouble  in  store  that  I  warn  you  to  look  where  you  stand, 
and  see  that  you  don't  lose  your  heart  before  you  know  it. 
It 's  an  awful  thing  for  a  woman,  Miss  Ivy,  to  get  a  notion 
after  a  man  who  hasn't  got  a  notion  after  her.  Men  go 
out  and  work  and  delve  and  drive,  and  forget;  but  there 
ain't  much  in  darning  stockings  and  making  pillow-cases 
to  take  a  woman's  thought  off  her  troubles,  and  sometimes 
they  get  sp'iled  for  life." 

Ivy  had  remained  speechless  from  amazement ;  but  when 
Mrs.  Simm  had  finished,  she  said,  with  a  sudden  accession 
of  womanly  dignity  that  surprised  the  good  housekeeper,  — 

"  Mrs.  Simm,  I  cannot  conceive  why  you  should  speak 
in  this  way  to  me.  If  you  suppose  I  am  not  quite  able  to 
take  care  of  myself,  I  assure  you  you  are  very  much  mis- 
taken." 

"  Lorful  heart  !  Now,  Miss  Ivy,  you  promised  you 
wouldn't  be  mad." 

"  And  I  have  kept  my  promise.     I  am  not  mad." 

"  No,  but  you  answer  up  short  like,  and  that  is  n't  what  I 
thought  of  you,  Ivy  Geer." 

Mrs.  Simm  looked  so  disappointed  that  Ivy  took  a  lower 
tone,  and  at  any  rate  she  would  have  had  to  do  it  soon ;  for 
her  fortitude  gave  way,  and  she  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 
She  was  not,  by  any  means,  a  heroine,  and  could  not  put  on 
the  impenetrable  mask  of  a  woman  of  the  world. 

"  Now,  dear,  don't  be  so  distressful,  dear,  don't ! "  said 
Mrs.  Simm,  soothingly.  "  I  can't  bear  to  see  you." 

"  I  am  sure  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  falling  in 


under  Difficulties.  131 

love  with  Mr.  Clerron  or  anybody  else,"  sobbed  Ivy,  "  and 
I  don't  know  what  should  make  you  think  so." 

"  Dear  heart,  I  don't  think  so.  I  only  told  you,  so  you 
need  n't." 

"Why,  I  should  as  soon  think  of  marrying  the  angel 
Gabriel ! " 

"  O,  don't  talk  so,  dear ;  he 's  no  more  than  man,  after 
all ;  but  still,  you  know,  he  's  no  fit  match  for  you.  To  say 
nothing  of  his  being  older,  and  all  that,  I  don't  think  it 's 
the  right  place  for  you.  Your  father  and  mother  are  very 
nice  folks ;  I  am  sure  nobody  could  ask  for  better  neigh- 
bors, and  their  good  word  is  in  everybody's  mouth;  and 
they  Ve  brought  you  up  well,  I  am  sure ;  but,  my  dear,  you 
know  it's  nothing  against  you  nor  them  that  you  ain't 
used  to  splendor,  and  you  would  n't  take  to  it  natural  like. 
You  'd  get  tired  of  that  way  of  life,  and  want  to  go  back 
to  the  old  fashions,  and  you'd  most  likely  have  to  leave 
your  father  and  mother ;  for  it 's  noways  probable  Mr. 
Clerron  will  stay  here  always ;  and  when  he  goes  back  to 
the  city,  think  what  a  dreary  life  you'd  have  betwixt  his 
two  proud  sisters,  on  the  one  hand,  —  to  be  sure,  there  's 
no  reason  why  they  should  be  ;  their  gran'ther  was  a  tailor, 
and  their  grandma  was  his  apprentice,  and  he  got  rich, 
and  gave  all  his  children  learning ;  and  Mr.  Felix's  father, 
he  was  a  lawyer,  and  he  got  rich  by  speculation,  and  so  the 
two  girls  always  had  on  their  high-heeled  boots  ;  but  Mr. 
Clerron,  he  always  laughs  at  them,  and  brings  up  "the 
grand-paternal  shop,"  as  he  calls  it,  and  provokes  them 
terribly,  I  know.  Well,  that 's  neither  here  nor  there  ;  but, 
as  I  was  saying,  here  you  '11  have  them  on  the  one  side, 
and  all  the  fine  ladies  on  the  other,  and  a  great  house  and 
servants,  and  parties  to  see  to,  and,  lorful  heart !  Miss  Ivy, 
you'd  die  in  three  years;  and  if  you  know  when  you're 
well  off,  you'll  stay  at  home,  and  marry  and  settle  down 
near  the  old  folks.  Believe  me,  my  dear,  it 's  a  bad  thing 
both  for  the  man  and  the  woman,  when  she  marries  above 
her." 


132  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

"Mrs.  Simm,"  said  Ivy,  rising,  "will  you  promise  me 
one  thing  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  child,  if  I  can." 

"Will  you  promise  me  never  again  to  mention  this  thing 
to  me,  or  allude  to  it  in  the  most  distant  manner  ?  " 

"  Miss  Ivy,  now,"  —  began  Mrs.  Simm,  deprecatingly. 

"  Because,"  interrupted  Ivy,  speaking  very  thick  and  fast, 
"you  cannot  imagine  how  disagreeable  it  is  to  me.  It 
makes  me  feel  ashamed  to  think  of  what  you  have  said, 
and  that  you  could  have  thought  it  even.  I  suppose  — 
indeed,  I  know  —  that  you  did  it  because  you  thought  you 
ought ;  but  you  may  be  certain  that  I  am  in  no  danger 
from  Mr.  Clerron,  nor  is  there  the  slightest  probability  that 
his  fortune,  or  honor,  or  reputation,  or  sisters  will  ever  be 
disturbed  by  me.  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  your 
good  intentions,  and  I  wish  you  good  morning." 

"  Don't,  now,  Miss  Ivy,  go  so  — 

But  Miss  Ivy  was  gone,  and  Mrs.  Simm  could  only  with- 
draw to  her  pile  of  clothes,  and  console  herself  by  stitching 
and  darning  with  renewed  vigor.  She  felt  rather  uneasy 
about  the  result  of  her  morning's  work,  though  she  had 
really  done  it  from  a  conscientious  sense  of  duty. 

"  Welladay,"  she  sighed,  at  last,  "  she  'd  better  be  a  little 
cut  up  and  huffy  now,  than  to  walk  into  a  ditch  blind- 
folded ;  and  I  wash  my  hands  of  whatever  may  happen 
after  this.  I  Ve  had  my  say  and  done  my  part." 

Alas,  Ivy  Geer !  The  Indian  summer  day  was  just  as 
calm  and  beautiful,  —  the  far-off  mountains  wore  their  veil 
of  mist  just  as  aerially,  —  the  brook  rippled  over  the  stones 
with  just  as  soft  a  melody ;  but  what  "  discord  on  the 
music  "  had  fallen !  what  "  darkness  on  the  glory  "  !  A  miser- 
able, dull,  dead  weight  was  the  heart  which  throbbed  so 
lightly  but  an  hour  before.  Wearily,  drearily,  she  dragged 
herself  home.  It  was  nearly  sunset  when  she  arrived,  and 
she  told  her  mother  she  was  tired  and  had  the  headache, 
which  was  true,  —  though,  if  she  had  said  heartache,  it 
would  have  been  truer.  Her  mother  immediately  did  what 


tinder  Difficulties.  133 

ninety-nine  mothers  out  of  a  hundred  would  do  in  similar 
circumstances,  —  made  her  swallow  a  cup  of  strong  tea, 
and  sent  her  to  bed.  Alas,  alas  that  there  are  sorrows 
which  the  strongest  tea  cannot  assuage ! 

When  the  last  echo  of  her  mother's  footstep  died  on  the 
stairs,  and  Ivy  was  alone  in  the  darkness,  the  tide  of  bit- 
terness and  desolation  swept  unchecked  over  her  soul,  and 
she  wept  tears  more  passionate  and  desponding  than  her 
life  had  ever  before  known,  —  tears  of  shame  and  indigna- 
tion and  grief.  It  was  true  that  the  thought  which. Mrs. 
Simm  had  suggested  had  never  crossed  her  mind  before ; 
yet  it  is  no  less  true,  that,  ail-unconsciously,  she  had  been 
weaving  a  golden  web,  whose  threads,  though  too  fine  and 
delicate  tven  for  herself  to  perceive,  were  yet  strong  enough 
to  entangle  her  life  in  their  meshes.  A  secret  chamber,  far 
removed  from  the  noise  and  din  of  the  world,  —  a  chamber 
whose  soft  and  rose-tinted  light  threw  its  radiance  over  her 
whole  future,  and  within  whose  quiet  recesses  she  loved 
to  sit  alone  and  dream  away  the  hours,  —  had  been  rudely 
entered,  and  thrown  violently  open  to  the  light  of  day,  and 
Ivy  saw  with  dismay  how  its  pictures  had  become  ghastly 
and  its  sacredness  was  defiled.  With  bitter,  though  need- 
less and  useless  self-reproach,  she  saw  how  she  had  suffered 
herself  to  be  fascinated.  Sorrowfully,  she  felt  that  Mrs. 
Simm's  words  were  true,  and  a  great  gulf  lay  between  her 
and  him.  She  pictured  him  moving  easily  arid  gracefully 
and  naturally  among  scenes  which  to  her  inexperienced  eye 
were  grand  and  stately ;  and  then,  with  a  sharp  pain,  she 
felt  how  constrained  and  awkward  and  entirely  unfit  for 
such  a  life  was  she.  Then  her  thoughts  reverted  to  her 
parents,  —  their  unchanging  love,  their  happiness,  depend- 
ing on  her,  their  solicitude  and  watchfulness,  —  and  she 
felt  as  if  ingratitude  were  added  to  her  other  sins,  that 
she  could  have  so  attached  herself  to  any  other.  And 
again  came  back  the  bitter,  burning  agony  of  shame  that 
she  had  done  the  very  thing  that  Mrs.  Simm  too  late  had 
warned  her  not  to  do ;  she  had  been  carried  away  by  the 


134  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

kindness  and  tenderness  of  her  friend,  and,  unasked,  had 
laid  the  wealth  of  her  heart  at  his  feet.  So  the  night 
flushed  -into  morning ;  and  the  sun  rose  upon  a  pale  face 
and  a  trembling  form,  —  but  not  upon  a  faint  heart ;  for 
Ivy,  kneeling  by  the  couch  where  her  morning  and  evening 
prayer  had  gone  up  since  lisping  infancy,  —  kneeling  no 
longer  a  child,  but  a  woman,  matured  through  love,  ma- 
tured, alas  !  through  suffering,  prayed  for  strength  and 
comfort ;  prayed  that  her  parents'  love  might  be  rendered 
back  into  their  own  bosoms  a  hundred-fold ;  prayed  that 
her  friend's  kindness  to  her  might  not  be  an  occasion  of 
sin  against  God,  and  that  she  might  be  enabled  to  walk 
with  a  steady  step  in  the  path  that  lay  before  her.  And 
she  arose  strengthened  and  comforted. 

All  the  morning  she  lay  quiet  and  silent  on  the  lounge 
in  the  little  sitting-room.  Her  mother,  busied  with  house- 
hold matters,  only  looked  in  upon  her  occasionally,  and, 
as  the  eyes  were  always  closed,  did  not  speak,  thinking  her 
asleep.  Ivy  was  not  asleep.  Ten  thousand  little  sprites 
flitted  swiftly  through  the  chambers  of  her  brain,  humming, 
singing,  weeping,  but  always  busy,  busy.  Then  softly  came 
another  tread,  and  she  knew  her  dear  old  father  had  drawn 
a  chair  close  to  her,  and  was  looking  into  her  face.  Tears 
came  into  her  eyes,  her  lip  involuntarily  quivered,  and  then 
she  felt  the  pressure  of  his  —  his  !  —  surely  that  was  not 
her  father's  kiss  !  She  started  up.  No,  no  !  that  was  not 
her  father's  face  bending  over  her,  —  not  her  father's  eyes 
smiling  into  hers ;  but,  woe  for  Ivy !  her  soul  thrilled  with 
a  deeper  bliss,  her  heart  leaped  with  a  swifter  bound,  and 
for  a  moment  all  the  experience  and  suffering  and  resolu- 
tions of  the  last  night  were  as  if  they  had  never  been. 
Only  for  a  moment,  and  then  with  a  strong  effort  she  re- 
membered the  impassable  gulf. 

"  A  pretty  welcome  home  you  have  given  me  !  "  said  Mr. 
Clerron,  lightly. 

He  saw  that  something  was  weighing  on  her  spirits,  but 
did  not  wish  to  distress  her  by  seeming  to  notice  it. 


under  Difficulties.  135 

"  I  wait  in  my  library,  I  walk  in  my  garden,  expecting 
every  moment  will  bring  you,  —  and  lo  !  here  you  are  lying, 
doing  nothing  but  look  pale  and  pretty  as  hard  as  you  can." 

Ivy  smiled,  but  did  not  consider  it  prudent  to  speak. 

"  I  found  your  books,  however,  and  have  brought  them 
to  you.  You  thought  you  would  escape  a  lesson  finely,  did 
you  not  ?  But  you  see  I  have  outwitted  you." 

"Yes, —  I  went  for  the  books  yesterday,"  said  Ivy,  "but 
I  got  talking  with  Mrs.  Simm  and  forgot  them." 

"  Ah  ! "  he  replied,  looking  somewhat  surprised.  "  I  did 
not  know  Mrs.  Simm  could  be  so  entertaining.  She  must 
have  exerted  herself.  Pray,  now,  if  it  would  not  be  im- 
pertinent, what  subject  was  it  that  drove  everything  else 
from  your  mind  ?  The  best  way  of  preserving  apples,  I 
dare  swear,  or  the  superiority  of  pickled  grapes  to  pickled 
cucumbers." 

"No,"  said  Ivy,  with  the  ghost  of  another  smile,  —  "we 
talked  upon  various  subjects  ;  but  not  those.  How  do  you 
do,  Mr.  Clerron  ?  Have  you  had  a  pleasant  visit  to  the 
city?" 

"Very  well,  I  thank  you,  Miss  Geer;  and  I  have  not 
had  a  remarkably  pleasant  visit,  I  am  obliged  to  you. 
Have  I  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  quite  well,  Miss  Geer,  — 
quite  fresh  and  buoyant?" 

The  lightness  of  tone  which  he  had  assumed  had  pre- 
cisely the  opposite  effect  intended. 

"  Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonny  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair  ? 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  weary  fu'  o'  care  ?  " 

is  the  wail  of  stricken  humanity  everywhere.  And  Ivy 
thought  of  Mr.  Clerron,  rich,  learned,  elegant,  happy,  on 
the  current  of  whose  life  she  only  floated  a  pleasant  ripple, 
—  and  of  herself,  poor,  plain,  ignorant,  to  whom  he  was 
the  life  of  life,  the  all  in  all.  I  would  not  have  you  suppose 
this  passed  through  her  mind  precisely  as  I  have  written 


136  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

it.  By  no  means.  The  ideas  rather  trooped  through  in  a 
pellmell  sort  of  way ;  but  they  got  through  just  as  effectu- 
ally. Now,  if  Ivy  had  been  content  to  let  her  muscles 
remain  perfectly  still,  her  face  might  have  given  no  sign 
of  the  confusion  within ;  but,  with  a  foolish  presumption, 
she  undertook  to  smile,  and  so  quite  lost  control  of  the 
little  rebels,  who  immediately  twisted  themselves  into  a  sob. 
Her  whole  frame  convulsed  with  weeping  and  trying  not 
to  weep,  he  forced  her  gently  back  on  the  pillow,  and,  bend- 
ing low,  whispered  softly, — 

"Ivy  what  is  it?" 

"  O,  don't  ask  me  !  —  please,  don't !  Please,  go  away !  " 
murmured  the  poor  child. 

"  I  will,  my  dear,  in  a  minute ;  but  you  must  think  I 
should  be  a  little  anxious.  I  leave  you  as  gay  as  a  bird, 
and  healthy  and  rosy,  —  and  when  I  come  back,  I  find  you 
white  and  sad  and  ill.  I  am  sure  something  weighs  on 
your  mind.  I  assure  you,  my  little  Ivy,  and  you  must 
believe,  that  I  am  your  true  friend,  —  and  if  you  would 
confide  in  me,  perhaps  I  could  bring  you  comfort.  It  would 
at  least  relieve  you  to  let  me  help  you  bear  the  burden." 

The  burden  being  of  such  a  nature,  it  is  not  at  all  proba- 
ble that  Ivy  would  have  assented  to  his  proposition ;  but 
the  welcome  entrance  of  her  mother  prevented  the  ne- 
cessity of  replying. 

"  O,  you  're  awake  !  Well,  I  told  Mr.  Clerron  he  might 
come  in,  though  I  thought  you  wouldn't  be.  Slept  well 
this  morning,  did  n't  you,  deary,  to  make  up  for  last  night  ?  " 

"  No,  mamma,  I  have  n't  been  asleep." 

"  Crying,  my  dear  ?  Well,  now,  that 's  a  pretty  good  one  ! 
Nervous  she  is,  Mr.  Clerron,  always  nervous,  when  the  least 
thing  ails  her ;  and  she  did  n't  sleep  a  wink  last  night, 
which  is  a  bad  thing  for  the  nerves,  —  and  Ivy  generally 
sleeps  like  a  top.  She  walked  over  to  your  house  yester- 
day, and  when  she  got  home  she  was  entirely  beat  out,  — 
looked  as  if  she  had  been  sick  a  week.  I  don't  know  why 
it  was,  for  the  walk  could  n't  have  hurt  her.  She 's  always 


under  Difficulties.  137 

dancing  round  at  home.  I  don't  think  she 's  been  exactly 
well  for  four  or  five  days.  Her  father  and  I  both  thought 
she  'd  been  more  quiet  like  than  usual." 

The  sudden  pang  that  shot  across  Ivy's  face  was  not 
unobserved  by  Mr.  Clerron.  A  thought  came  into  his 
mind.  He  had  risen  at  Mrs.  Geer's  entrance,  and  he  now 
expressed  his  regret  for  Ivy's  illness,  and  hoped  that  she 
would  soon  be  well,  and  able  to  resume  her  studies  ;  and, 
with  a  few  words  of  interest  and  inquiry  to  Mrs.  Geer,  took 
his  leave. 

"  I  wonder  if  Mrs.  Simm  has  been  making  mischief !  " 
thought  he,  as  he  stalked  home  rather  more  energetically 
than  was  his  custom. 

That  unfortunate  lady  was  in  her  sitting-room,  starching 
muslins,  when  Mr.  Clerron  entered.  She  had  surmised 
that  he  was  gone  to  the  farm,  and  had  looked  for  his  re- 
turn with  a  shadow  of  dread.  She  saw  by  his  face  thai? 
something  was  wrong. 

"Mrs.  Simm,"  he  began,  somewhat  abruptly,  but  not 
disrespectfully,  "may  I  beg  your  pardon  for  inquiring  what 
Ivy  Geer  talked  to  you  about,  yesterday  ?  " 

"  O,  good  Lord !  she  ha'  n't  told  you,  has  she  ? "  cried 
Mrs.  Simm,  —  her  fear  of  God,  for  once,  yielding  to  her 
greater  fear  of  man.  The  embroidered  collar,  which  she 
had  been  vigorously  beating,  dropped  to  the  floor,  and  she 
gazed  at  him  with  such  terror  and  dismay  in  every  linea- 
ment, that  he  could  not  help  being  amused.  He  picked  up 
the  collar,  which,  in  her  perturbation,  she  had  not  noticed, 
and  said, — 

"No,  she  has  told  me  nothing;  but  I  find  her  excited 
and  ill,  and  I  have  reason  to  believe  it  is  connected  with 
her  visit  here  yesterday.  If  it  is  anything  relating  to  me, 
and  which  I  have  a  right  to  know,  you  would  do  me  a 
great  favor  by  enlightening  me  on  the  subject." 

Mrs.  Simm  had  not  a  particle  of  that  knowledge  in 
which  Young  America  is  so  great  a  proficient,  namely,  the 
"  knowing  how  to  get  out  of  a  scrape."  She  was,  besides, 


138  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

alarmed  at  the  effect  of  her  words  on  Ivy,  supposing  noth- 
ing less  than  that  the  girl  was  in  the  last  stages  of  a  swift 
consumption  ;  so  she  sat  down,  and,  rubbing  her  starchy 
hands  together,  with  many  a  deprecatory  "  you  know,"  and 
apologetic  "  I  am  sure  I  thought  I  was  acting  for  the  best," 
gave,  considering  her  agitation,  a  tolerably  accurate  ac- 
count of  the  whole  interview.  Her  interlocutor  saw  plainly 
that  she  had  .acted  from  a  sincere  conscientiousness,  and 
not  from  a  meddlesome,  mischievous  interference  ;  so  he 
only  thanked  her  for  her  kind  interest,  and  suggested  that 
he  had  now  arrived  at  an  age  when  it  would,  perhaps,  be 
well  for  him  to  conduct  matters,  particularly  of  so  delicate 
a  nature,  solely  according  to  his  own  judgment.  He  was 
sorry  to  have  given  her  any  trouble. 

"Scissors  cuts  only  what  comes  between  'em,"  solilo- 
quized Mrs.  Simm,  when  the  door  closed  behind  him.  "If 
ever  I  meddle  with  a  courting-business  again,  my  name 
ain't  Martha  Simm.  No,  they  may  go  to  Halifax,  whoever 
they  be,  'fore  ever  I  '11  lift  a  finger." 

It  is  a  great  pity  that  the  world  generally  has  not  been 
brought  to  make  the  same  wise  resolution. 

One,  two,  three,  four  days  passed  away,  and  still  Ivy  pon- 
dered the  question  so  often  wrung  from  man  in  his  bewil- 
dered gropings,  "  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  Every  day  brought 
her  teacher  and  friend  to  comfort,  amuse,  and  strengthen. 
Every  morning  she  resolved  to  be  on  her  guard,  to  re- 
member the  impassable  gulf.  Every  evening  she  felt  the 
silken  cords  drawing  tighter  and  tighter  around  her  soul, 
and  binding  her  closer  and  closer  to  him.  She  thought 
she  might  die,  and  the  thought  gave  her  a  sudden  joy. 
Death  would  solve  the  problem  at  once.  If  only  a  few 
weeks  or  months  lay  before  her,  she  could  quietly  rest  on 
him,  and  give  herself  up  to  him  and  wait  in  heaven  for  all 
rough  places  to  be  made  plain.  But  Ivy  did  not  die. 
Youth  and  nursing  and  herb-tea  were  too  strong  for  her, 
and  the  color  came  back  to  her  cheek  and  the  languor  went 
out  from  her  blue  eyes.  She  saw  nothing  to  be  done  but 


under  Difficulties.  139 

to  resume  her  old  routine.  It  would  be  difficult  to  say 
whether  she  was  more  glad  or  sorry  at  seeming  to  see  this 
necessity.  She  knew  her  danger,  and  it  was  very  fascinat- 
ing. She  did  not  look  into  the  far-off  future ;  she  only 
prayed  to  be  kept  from  day  to  day.  Perhaps  her  course 
was  wise  ;  perhaps  not.  But  she  had  to  rely  on  her  own 
judgment  alone :  and  her  judgment  was  founded  on  in- 
experience, which  is  not  a  trustworthy  basis. 

A  new  difficulty  arose.  Ivy  found  that  she  could  not 
resume  her  old  habits.  To  be  sure,  she  learned  her  lessons 
just  as  perfectly  at  home  as  she  had  ever  done.  Just  as 
punctual  to  the  appointed  hour,  she  went  to  recite  them  ; 
but  no  sooner  had  her  foot  crossed  Mr.  Clerron's  threshold 
than  her  spirit  seemed  to  die  within  her.  She  remembered 
neither  words  nor  ideas.  Day  after  day,  she  attempted  to 
go  through  her  recitation  as  usual,  and,  day  after  day,  she 
hesitated,  stammered,  and  utterly  failed.  His  gentle  assist- 
ance only  increased  her  embarrassment.  This  she  was  too 
proud  to  endure  ;  and,  one  day,  after  an  unsuccessful  effort, 
she  closed  the  book  with  a  quick,  impatient  gesture,  and 
exclaimed,  — 

"  Mr.  Clerron,  I  shall  not  recite  any  more  !  " 

The  agitated  flush  which  had  suffused  her  face  gave  way 
to  paleness.  He  saw  that  she  was  under  strong  excite- 
ment, and  quietly  replied,— 

"  Very  well,  you  need  not,  if  you  are  tired.  You  are  not 
quite  well  yet,  and  must  not  try  to  do  too  much.  We  will 
commence  here  to-morrow." 

"  No,  sir,  —  I  shall  not  recite  any  more  at  all." 

"Till  to-morrow." 

"  Never  any  more  ! " 

There  was  a  moment's  pause. 

"  You  must  not  lose  patience,  my  dear.  In  a  few  days 
you  will  recite  as  well  as  ever.  A  fine  notion,  forsooth, 
because  you  have  been  ill,  and  forgotten  a  little,  to  give  up 
studying  !  And  what  is  to  become  of  my  laurels,  pray,  — 
all  the  glory  I  am  to  get  by  your  proficiency  ?  " 


140  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

"I  shall  study  at  home  just  the  same,  but  I  shall  not 
recite." 

"Why  not?" 

His  look  became  serious. 

"  Because  I  cannot.  I  do  not  think  it  best,  —  and  —  and 
I  will  not." 

Another  pause. 

"  Ivy,  do  you  not  like  your  teacher  ?  " 

"No,  sir.     I  hate 'you!" 

The  words  seemed  to  flash  from  her  lips.  She  sprang 
up  and  stood  erect  before  him,  her  eyes  on  fire,  and  every 
nerve  quivering  with  intense  excitement.  He  was  shocked 
and  startled.  It  was  a  new  phase  of  her  character,  —  a 
new  revelation.  He,  too,  arose,  and  walked  to  the  window. 
If  Ivy  could  have  seen  the  workings  of  his  face,  there 
would  have  been  a  revelation  to  her  also.  But  she  was  too 
highly  excited  to  notice  anything.  He  came  back  to  her 
and  spoke  in  a  low  voice, — 

"  Ivy,  this  is  too  much.     This  I  did  not  expect." 

He  laid  his  Jiand  upon  her  head  as  he  had  often  done 
before.  She  shook  it  off  passionately. 

"  Yes,  I  hate  you.     I  hate  you,  because  —  " 

"  Because  I  wanted  you  to  love  me  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  because  I  do  love  you,  and  you  bring  me  only 
wretchedness.  I  have  never  been  happy  since  the  misera- 
ble day  I  first  saw  you." 

"  Then,  Ivy,  I  have  utterly  failed  in  what  it  has  been  my 
constant  endeavor  to  do." 

"  No,  sir,  you  have  succeeded  in  what  you  endeavored 
to  do.  You  have  taught  me.  You  have  given  me  knowl- 
edge and  thought,  and  showed  me  the  source  of  knowledge. 
But  I  had  better  have  been  the  ignorant  girl  you  found  me. 
You  have  taken  from  me  what  I  can  never  find  again.  I 
have  made  a  bitter  exchange.  I  was  ignorant  and  stupid, 
I  know,  —  but  I  was  happy  and  contented  ;  and  now  I  am 
wretched  and  miserable  and  wicked.  You  have  come  be- 
tween me  and  my  home  and  my  father  and  mother,  —  be- 


under  Difficulties. .  141 

tween  me  and  all  the  bliss  of  my  past  and  all  my  hope  for 
the  future." 

"  And  thus,  Ivy,  have  you  come  between  me  and  my  past 
and  my  future ;  —  yet  not  thus.  You  shut  out  from  my 
heart  all  the  sorrow  and  vexation  and  strife  that  have 
clouded  my  life,  and  fill  it  with  your  own  dear  presence. 
You  come  between  me  and  my  future,  because,  in  looking 
forward,  I  see  only  you.  I  should  have  known  better. 
There  is  a  gulf  between  us ;  but  if  I  could  make  you ' 
happy  —  " 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  make  me  happy.  I  know  there  is 
a  gulf  between  us.  I  saw  it  while  you  were  gone.  I 
measured  it  and  fathomed  it.  I  shall  not  leap  across. 
Stay  you  on  your  side  quietly ;  I  shall  stay  as  quietly  on 
mine." 

"It  is  too  late  for  that,  Ivy,  —  too  late  now.  But  you 
are  not  to  blame,  my  child.  Little  sunbeam  that  you  are, 
I  will  not  cloud  you.  Go  shine  upon  other  lives  as  you  have 
shone  upon  mine !  light  up  other  hearths  as  you  have  mine  ! 
and  I  will  bless  you  forever,  though  mine  —  " 

He  turned  away  with  an  expression  on  his  face  that  Ivy 
could  not  read.  Her  passion  was  gone.  She  hesitated  a 
moment,  then  went  to  his  side  and  laid  her  hand  softly  on 
his  arm.  There  was  a  strange  moistened  gleam  in  his  eyes 
as  he  turned  them  upon  her. 

"  Mr.  Clerron,  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  My  dear,  you  never  can  understand  me." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Ivy,  with  her  old  humility ;  "  but,  at 
least,  I  might  understand  whether  I  have  vexed  you." 

"You  have  not  vexed  me." 

"  I  spoke  proudly  and  rudely  to  you.  I  was  angry,  and 
so  unhappy.  I  shall  always  be  so  ;  I  shall  never  be  happy 
again  ;  but  I  want  you  to  be,  and  you  do  not  look  as  if 
you  were." 

If  Ivy  had  not  been  a  little  fool,  she  would  not  have 
spoken  so  ;  but  she  was,  so  she  did.  . 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  little  tendril.     I  was  so  occupied 


142  The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

with  my  own  preconceived  ideas  that  I  forgot  to  sympa- 
thize with  you.  Tell  me  why  or  how  I  have  made  you 
unhappy.  But  I  know  ;  you  need  not.  I  assure  you,  how- 
ever, that  you  are  entirely  wrong.  It  was  a  prudish  and 
whimsical  notion  of  my  good  old  housekeeper's.  You  are 
never  to  think  of  it  again.  /  never  attributed  such  a 
thought  or  feeling  to  you." 

u  Did  you  suppose  that  was  all  that  made  me  unhappy  ?  " 

"  Can  there  be  anything  else  ?  " 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so.  Perhaps  I  should  not  have 
been  unhappy  but  for  that,  at  least  not  so  soon  ;  but  that 
alone  could  never  have  made  me  so." 

Little  fool  again  !  She  was  like  a  chicken  thrusting  its 
head  into  a  corner  and  thinking  itself  out  of  danger  be- 
cause it  cannot  see  the  danger.  She  had  no  notion  that 
she  was  giving  him  the  least  clew  to  the  truth,  but  con- 
sidered herself  speaking  with  more  than  Delphic  prudence. 
She  rather  liked  to  coast  along  the  shores  of  her  trouble 
and  see  how  near  she  could  approach  without  running 
aground ;  but  she  struck  before  she  knew  it. 

Mr.  Clerron's  face  suddenly  changed.  He  took  both  her 
hands,  and  drew  her  towards  him. 

"Ivy,  perhaps  I  have  been  misunderstanding  you.  I 
will  at  least  find  out  the  truth.  Ivy,  do  you  know  that  I 
love  you,  that  I  have  loved  you  almost  from  the  first,  that 
I  would  gladly  here  and  now  take  you  to  my  heart  and 
keep  you  here  forever?" 

"  I  do  not  know  it,"  faltered  Ivy,  half  beside  herself. 

"  Know  it  now,  then  !  I  am  older  than  you,  and  I  seem 
to  myself  so  far  removed  from  you  that  I  have  feared  to 
ask  you  to  trust  your  happiness  to  my  keeping,  lest  I  should 
lose  you  entirely ;  but  sometimes  you  say  or  do  something 
which  gives  me  hope.  My  experience  has  been  very  dif- 
ferent from  yours.  I  am  not  worthy  to  clasp  your  purity 
and  loveliness.  Still  I  would  do  it  if —  Tell  me,  Ivy, 
does  it  give  you  pain  or  pleasure  ? " 

Ivy  took  his  hands,  as  he  had  before  held  hers,  gazed 
steadily  into  his  eyes,  and  said, — 


under  Difficulties.  143 

"  Mr.  Clerron,  are  you  in  earnest  ?     Do  you  love  me  ?  " 

"I  am,  Ivy.     I  do  love  you." 

"  How  do  you  love  me  ?  " 

"  I  love  you  with  all  the  strength  and  power  that  God  has 
given  me." 

"  You  do  not  simply  pity  me  ?  You  have  not,  because 
you  heard  from  Mrs.  Simm,  or  suspected,  yourself,  that  I 
was  weak  enough  to  mistake  your  kindness  and  nobleness, 
—  you  have  not  in  pity  resolved  to  sacrifice  your  happiness 
to  mine?" 

"No,  Ivy,  —  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  pity  only  myself. 
I  reverence  you.  I  think  —  I  have  hoped  that  you  loved 
me  as  a  teacher  and  friend.  I  dared  not  believe  you  could 
ever  do  more;  now  something  within  tells  me  that  you 
can.  Can  you,  Ivy  ?  If  the  love  and  tenderness  and  de- 
votion of  my  whole  life  can  make  you  happy,  happiness 
shall  not  fail  to  be  yours." 

Ivy's  gaze  never  for  a  moment  drooped  under  his,  earnest 
and  piercing  though  it  was. 

"Now  I  am  happy,"  she  said,  slowly  and  distinctly. 
"  Now  I  am  blessed.  I  can  never  ask  anything  more." 

"  But  I  ask  something  more,"  he  replied,  bending  forward 
eagerly.  "  I  ask  much  more.  I  want  your  love.  Shall  I 
have  it?  And  I  want  you." 

"My  love?"  She  blushed  slightly,  but  spoke  without 
hesitation.  "  Have  I  not  given  it,  —  long,  long  before  you 
asked  it,  before  you  even  cared  for  my  friendship  ?  Not 
love  only,  but  life,  my  very  whole  being,  centred  in  you, 
does  now,  and  will  always.  Is  it  right  to  say  this  ?  —  But 
I  am  not  ashamed.  I  shall  always  be  proud  to  have  loved 
you,  though  only  to  lose  you,  —  and  to  be  loved  by  you  is 
glory  enough  for  all  my  future." 

One  moment  Ivy  rested  in  the  arms  that  clasped  her; 
but  as  he  whispered,  "  Thus  you  answer  the  second  ques- 
tion ?  You  give  me  yourself  too  ? "  she  hastily  freed  herself. 

"  Never ! " 

"  Ivy ! " 


144  2^*  Pursuit  of  Knowledge 

"  Never  !  "  more  firmly  than  before. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ? "  he  said,  sternly.  "  Are  you 
trifling?" 

There  was  such  a  frown  on  his  brow  as  Ivy  had  never 
seen.  She  quailed  before  it. 

"  Do  not  be  angry  !  Alas  !  I  am  not  trifling.  Life  itself 
is  not  worth  so  much  as  your  love.  But  the  impassable 
gulf  is  between  us  just  the  same." 

"  What  is  it  ?    Who  put  it  there  ? 

"  God  put  it  there.     Mrs.  Simm  showed  it  to  me." 

"  Mrs.  Simm  be  —  !  A  prating  gossip  !  Ivy,  I  told  you 
you  were  never  to  mention  that  again,  —  never  to  think  of 
it;  and  you  must  obey  me." 

"  I  will  try  to  obey  you  in  that." 

"And  very  soon  you  shall  promise  to  obey  me  in  all 
things.  But  I  will  not  be  hard  with  you.  The  yoke  shall 
rest  very  lightly,  —  so  lightly  you  shall  not  feel  it.  You 
will  not  do  as  much,  I  dare  say.  You  will  make  me  ac- 
knowledge your  power  every  day,  dear  little  vixen !  Ivy, 
why  do  you  draw  back  ?  Why  do  you  not  come  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  come  to  you,  Mr.  Clerron,  any  more.  I  must 
go  home  now,  and  stay  at  home." 

"  When  your  home  is  here,  Ivy,  stay  at  home.-  For  the 
present,  don't  go.  Wait  a  little." 

"  You  do  not  understand  me.  You  will  not  understand 
me,"  said  Ivy,  bursting  into  tears.  "  I  must  leave  you. 
Don't  make  the  way  so  difficult." 

"  I  will  make  it  so  difficult  that  you  cannot  walk  in  it. 
Why  do  you  wish  to  leave  me  ?  Have  you  not  said  that 
you  loved  me  ?  " 

"It  is  because  I  love  you  that  I  go.  I  am  not  fit  for 
you.  I  was  not  made  for  you.  I  can  never  make  you 
happy.  I  cannot  go  among  your  friends,  your  sisters.  I 
am  ignorant.  You  would  be  ashamed  of  me,  and  then 
you  would  not  love  me  ;  you  could  not ;  and  I  should  lose 
the  thing  I  most  value.  No,  Mr.  Clerron,  —  I  would  rather 
keep  your  love  in  my  own  heart  and  my  own  home." 


iinder  Difficulties.  145 

"  Ivy,  can  you  be  happy  without  me  ?  " 

"  I  shall  not  be  without  you.  My  heart  is  full  of  lifelong 
joyful  memories.  You  need  not  regret  me.  Yes,  I  shall 
be  happy.  I  shall  work  with  mind  and  hands.  I  shall 
not  pine  away  in  a  mean  and  feeble  life.  I  shall  be  strong, 
and  cheerful,  and  active,  and  helpful ;  and  I  think  I  shall 
not  cease  to  love  you  in  heaven." 

"  But  there  is,  maybe,  a  long  road  for  us  to  travel  before 
we  reach  heaven,  and  I  want  you  to  help  me  along.  Ivy, 
I  am  not  so  spiritual  as  you.  I  cannot  .live  on  memory, 
I  want  you  before  me  all  the  time.  I  want  to  see  you  and 
talk  with  you  every  day.  Why  do  you  speak  of  such 
things  ?  Is  it  the  soul  or  its  surroundings  that  you  value? 
Do  you  respect  or  care  for  wealth  and  station?  Do  you 
consider  a  woman  your  superior  because  she  wears  a  finer 
dress  than  you  ?  " 

"  I  ?  No,  sir  !  No,  indeed  !  you  very  well  know.  But 
the  world  does,  and  you  move  in  the  world  ;  and  I  do  not 
want  the  world  to  pity  you  because  you  have  an  uncouth, 
ignorant  wife.  /  don't  want  to  be  despised  by  those  who 
are  above  me  only  in  station." 

"Little  aristocrat,  you  are  prouder  than  I.  Will  you 
sacrifice  your  happiness  and  mine  to  your  pride  ?  " 

"  Proud  perhaps  I  am,  but  it  is  not  all  pride.  I  think 
you  are  noble,  but  I  think  also  you  could  not  help  losing 
patience  when  you  found  that  I  could  not  accommodate 
myself  to  the  station  to  which  you  had  raised  me.  Then 
you  would  not  respect  me.  I  am,  indeed,  too  proud  to 
wish  to  lose  that ;  and  losing  your  respect,  as  I  said  before, 
I  should  not  long  keep  your  love." 

"  But  you  will  accommodate  yourself  to  any  station. 
My  dear,  you  are  young,  and  know  so  little  about  this 
world,  which  is  such  a  bugbear  to  you.  Why,  there  is  very 
little  that  will  be  greatly  unlike  this.  At  first  you  might 
be  a  little  bewildered,  but  I  shall  be  by  you  all  the  time, 
and  you  shall  feel  and  fear  nothing,  and  gradually  you  will 
learn  what  little  you  need  to  know ;  and  most  of  all,  you 

J 


146   The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge  under  Difficulties. 

will  be  yourself  the  best  and  the  loveliest  of  women.  Dear 
Ivy,  I  would  not  part  with  your  sweet,  unconscious  sim- 
plicity for  all  the  accomplishments  and  acquired  elegancies 
of  the  finest  lady  in  the  world."  (What  men  always  say.) 
"  You  are  not  ignorant  of  anything  you  ought  to  know,  and 
your  ignorance  of  the  world  is  an  additional  charm  to  one 
who  knows  so  much  of  its  wickedness  as  I.  But  we  will 
not  talk  of  it.  There  is  no  need.  This  shall  be  our  home, 
and  here  the  world  will  not  trouble  us." 

"And  I  cannot  give  up  my  dear  father  and  mother. 
You  and  your  friends  —  " 

"  They  are  my  friends,  valued  and  dear  to  me,  and  dearer 
still  they  shall  be  as  the  parents  of  my  dear  little  wife  —  " 

"I  was  going  to  say  — " 

"  But  you  shall  not  say  it.  I  utterly  forbid  you  ever  to 
mention  it  again.  You  are  mine,  all  my  own.  Your  friends 
are  my  friends,  your  honor  my  honor,  your  happiness  my 
'happiness  henceforth  ;  and  what  God  joins  together  let  not 
man  or  woman  put  asunder." 

"Ah !"  whispered  Ivy,  faintly;  for  she  was  yielding,  and 
just  beginning  to  receive  the  sense  of  great  and  unexpected 
bliss,  "but  if  you  should  be  wrong,  —  if  you  should  ever 
repent  of  this,  it  is  not  your  happiness  alone,  but  mine,  too, 
that  will  be  destroyed." 

•  "  Ivy,  am  I  a  mere  school-boy  to  swear  eternal  fidelity 
for  a  week  ?  Have  I  not  been  tossing  hither  and  thither 
on  the  world's  tide  ever  since  you  lay  in  your  cradle,  and 
do  I  not  know  my  position  and  'my  power  and  my  habits 
and  my  love  ?  And  knowing  all  this,  do  I  not  know  that 
this  dear  head  "  —  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

But  I  said  I  was  not  going  to  marry  my  man  and  woman, 
did  I  not  ?  Nor  have  I.  To  be  sure,  you  may  have,  de- 
tected premonitory  symptoms,  but  I  said  nothing  about 
that.  I  only  promised  not  to  marry  them,  and  I  have  not 
married  them. 

And  that  is  the  end  of  my  story. 


A    RAFT    THAT    NO    MAN    MADE. 


AM  a  soldier :  but  my  tale,  this  time,  is  not  of 

war. 

The  man  of  whom  the  Muse  talked  to  the  blind 
bard  of  old  had  grown  wise  in  wayfaring.  He  had  seen 
such  men  and  cities  as  the  sun  shines  on,  and  the  great 
wonders  of  land  and  sea ;  and  he  had  visited  the  farther 
countries,  whose  indwellers,  having  been  once  at  home  in 
the  green  fields  and  under  the  sky  and  roofs  of  the  cheery 
earth,  were  now  gone  forth  and  forward  into  a  dim  and 
shadowed  land,  from  which  they  found  no  backward  path 
to  these  old  haunts,  and  their  old  loves  :  —  , 

"He'pt  Kal  veifreXy  Ke/caAu/AjaeVot  •  ovSe  TTOT*  avrous 
'He'Aio?  $ae'&ot>  KaTaSepxeTat  anTlvevaw. 

Od.  xi. 

At  the  Charter-House  I  learned  the  story  of  the  King 
of  Ithaca,  and  read  it  for  something  better  than  a  task ; 
and  since,  though  I  have  never  seen  so  many  cities  as  the 
much-wandering  man,  nor  grown  so  wise,  yet  have  heard 
and  seen  and  remembered,  for  myself,  words  and  thing^ 
from  crowded  streets  and  fairs  and  shows  and  wave-washed 
quays  and  murmurous  market-places,  in  many  lands ;  and 
for  his  Ki/j,p.€piuv  dvSp&v  SfJ/zoy,  —  his  people  wrapt  in  cloud 
and  vapor,  whom  "no  glad  sun  finds  with  his  beams,"  — 
have  been  borne  along  a  perilous  path  through  thick  mists, 
among  the  crashing  ice  of  the  Upper  Atlantic,  as  well  as 
sweltered  upon  a  Southern  sea,  and  have  learned  something 
of  men  and  something  of  God. 


148  A  Raft  that  no  Man  made. 

I  was  in  Newfoundland,  a  lieutenant  of  Royal  Engineers, 
in  Major  Gore's  time,  and  went  about  a  good  deal  among 
the  people,  in  surveying  for  Government.  One  of  my  old 
friends  there  was  Skipper  Benjie  Westham  of  Brigus,  a 
shortish,  stout,  bald  man,  with  a  cheerful,  honest  face  and 
a  kind  voice  ;  and  he,  mending  a  caplin-seine  one  day,  told 
me  this  story,  which  I  will  try  to  tell  after  him. 

We  were  upon  the  high  ground,  beyond  where  the  church 
stands  now,  and  Prudence,  the  fisherman's  daughter,  and 
Ralph  Barrows,  her  husband,  were  with  Skipper  Benjie 
when  he  began ;  and  I  had  an  hour  by  the  watch  to  spend. 
The  neighborhood,  all  about,  was  still ;  the  only  men  who 
were  in  sight  were  so  far  off  that  we  heard  nothing  from 
them  ;  no  wind  was  stirring  near  us,  and  a  slow  sail  could 
be  seen  outside.  Everything  was  right  for  listening  and 
telling. 

"  I  can  tell  'ee  what  I  sid  *  myself,  sir,"  said  Skipper 
Benjie.  "  It  is  n'  like  a  story  that 's  put  down  in  books  : 
it 's  on'y  like  what  we  planters  f  tells  of  a  winter's  night  or 
sech  ;  but  it 's  feeinn,  mubbe,  an'  'ee  won't  expect  much  off 
a  man  as  could  n'  never  read,  —  not  so  much  as  Bible  or 
Prayer-Book,  even." 

Skipper  Benjie  looked  just  like  what  he  was  thought :  a 
true-hearted,  healthy  man,  a  good  fisherman,  and  .a  good 
seaman.  There  was  no  need  of  any  one's  saying  it.  So 
I  only  waited  till  he  went  on  speaking. 

"'Twas  one  time  I  goed  to  th'  Ice,  sir.  I  never  goed 
but  once,  an'  't  was  a'most  the  first  v'yage  ever  was,  ef 
't^was  n'  the  very  first ;  an'  't  was  the  last  for  me,  an'  worse 
agen  for  the  rest-part  o'  that  crew,  that  never  goed  no 
more  !  'T  was  tarrible  sad  douns  wi'  they  !  " 

This  preface  was  accompanied  by  some  preliminary 
handling  of  the  caplin-seine,  also,  to  find  out  the  broken 
places  and  get  them  about  him.  Ralph  and  Prudence 
deftly  helped  him.  Then,  making  his  story  wait,  after  this 
opening,  he  took  one  hole  to  begin  at  in  mending,  chose 

*  Saw.  t  Fishermen. 


A  Raft  that  no  Man  made.  149 

his  seat,  and  drew  the  seine  up  to  his  knee.  At  the  same 
time  I  got  nearer  to  the  fellowship  of  the  family  by  per- 
suading the  planter  (who  yielded  with  a  pleasant  smile)  to 
let  me  try  my  hand  at  the  netting.  Prudence  quietly  took 
to  herself  a  share  of  the  work,  and  Ralph  alone  was  un- 
busied. 

"  They  calls  th'  Ice  a  wicked  place,  —  Sundays  an'  weekin 
days  all  alike  ;  an'  to  my  seemun  it 's  a  cruel,  bloody  place, 
jes'  so  well,  —  but  not  all  thinks  alike,  surely.  —  Rafe,  lad, 
mubbe  'ee  'd  ruther  go  down  cove-ways,  an'  overhaul  the 
punt  a  bit."  , 

Ralph,  who  perhaps  had  stood  waiting  for  the  very  dis- 
missal that  he  now  got,  assented  and  left  us  three.  Pru- 
dence, to  be  sure,  looked  after  him  as  if  she  would  a  good 
deal  rather  go  with  him  than  stay ;  but  she  stayed,  never- 
theless, and  worked  at  the  seine.  I  interpreted  to  myself 
Skipper  Benjie's  sending  away  of  one  of  his  hearers  by 
supposing  that  his  son-in-law  had  often  heard  his  tales  ; 
but  the  planter  explained  himself :  — 

"  'Ee  sees,  sir,  I  knocked  off  goun  to  th'  Ice  becase 
't  was  sech  a  tarrible  cruel  place,  to  my  seemun.  They 
swiles  *  be  so  knowun  like,  —  as  knowun  as  a  dog,  iri  a 
manner,  an'  lovun  to  their  own,  like  Christens,  a'most,  more 
than  bastes  ;  an'  they  'm  got  red  blood,  for  all  they  lives 
most-partly  in  water ;  an'  then  I  found  'em  so  friendly, 
when  I  was  wantun  friends  badly.  But  I  s'pose  the  swile- 
fishery  's  needful ;  an'  I  knows,  in  course,  that  even  Chris- 
tens'  blood  's  got  to  be  taken  sometimes,  when  it's  bad 
blood,  an'  I  would  n'  be  childish  about  they  things  ;  on'y,  — • 
ef  it 's  me,  —  when  I  can  live  by  fishun,  I  don'  want  to  go 
an'  club  an'  shoot  an'  cut  an'  slash  among  poor  harmless 
things  that  'ould  never  harm  man  or  'oman,  an'  'ould  cry 
great  tears  down  for  pity- sake,  an  got  a  sound  like  a  Chris- 
ten ;  I  'ould  n'  like  to  go  a-swilun  for  gain,  —  not  after  beun 
among  'em,  way  I  was,  anyways." 

This  apology  made  it  plain  that  Skipper  Benjie  was  large- 

*  Seals. 


150  A  Raft  that  no  Man  made.  ' 

hearted  enough,  or  indulgent  enough,  not  to  seek  to  strain 
others,  even  his  own  family,  up  to  his  own  way  in  every- 
thing ;  and  it  might  easily  be  thought  that  the  young 
fisherman  had  different  feelings  about  sealing  from  those 
that  the  planter's  story  was  meant  to  bring  out.  All  being 
ready,  he  began  his  tale  again  :  — 

"  I  shipped  wi'  Skipper  Isra'l  Gooden,  from  Carbonear : 
the  schooner  was  the  Baccaloue,  wi'  forty  men,  all  told. 
'Twas  of  a  Sunday  morn'n  'e  'ould  sail,  twel'th  day  o' 
March,  wi'  another  schooner  in  company,  —  the  Sparrow. 
There  was  a  many  of  us  was  n'  too  good,  but  we  thowt 
wrong  of  'e's  takun  the  Lord's  Day  to  'e'sself.  —  Wull,  sir, 
afore  I  corned  'ome,  I  was  in  a  great  desert  country,  an' 
floated  on  sea  wi'  a  monstrous  great  raft  that  no  man  never 
made,  creakun  an'  crashun  an'  groanun  an'  tumblun  an' 
wastun  an'  goun  to  pieces,  an'  no  man  on  her  but  me,  an' 
full  o'  livun  things,  —  dreadful ! 

"  About  a  five  hours  out,  't  was,  we  first  sid  the  blink,* 
an'  corned  up  wi'  th'  Ice  about  off  Cape  Bonavis'.  We  fell 
in  wi,  it  south,  an  worked  up  nothe  along  :  but  we  did  n' 
see  swiles  for  two  or  three  days  yet ;  on'y  we  was  workun 
along ;  pokun  the  cakes  of  ice  away,  an'  haulun  through 
wi'  main  strength  sometimes,  holdun  on  wi'  bights  o'  ropes 
out  o'  the  bow  ;  an'  more  times,  agen,  in  clear  water :  some- 
times mist  all  round  us,  'ee  could  n'  see  the  ship's  len'th, 
sca'ce  ;  an'  more  times  snow,  jes'  so  thick  ;  an'  then  a  gale 
o'  wind,  mubbe,  would  a'most  blow  all  the  spars  out  of  her, 
seemunly. 

"  We  kep'  sight  o'  th'  other  schooner,  most-partly ;  an' 
when  we  did  n'  keep  it,  we'd  get  it  agen.  So  one  night 
't  was  a  beautiful  moonlight  night :  I  think  I  never  sid  a 
moon  so  bright  as  that  moon  was  ;  an'  such  lovely  sights 
a  body  'ould  n'  think  could  be  !  Little  islands,  an'  bigger, 
agen,  there  was,  on  every  hand,  shinun  so  bright,  wi'  great, 
awful-lookun  shadows  !  an'  then  the  sea  all  black,  between  ! 
They  did  look  so  beautiful  as  ef  a  body  could  go  an'  bide 

*  A  dull  glare  on  the  horizon,  from  the  immense  masses  of  ice. 


A  Raft  that  no  Man  made.  151 

on  em,  in  a  manner ;  an'  the  sky  was  jes'  so  blue,  an'  the 
stars  all  shinun  out,  an'  the  moon  all  so  bright !  I  never 
looked  upon  the  like.  An'  so  I  stood  in  the  bows  ;  an'  I 
don't  know  ef  I  thowt  o'  God  first,  but  I  was  thinkun  o'  my 
girl  that  I  was  troth-plight  wi'  then,  an'  a  many  things, 
when  all  of  a  sudden  we  corned  upon  the  hardest  ice  we  'd 
a-had  ;  an'  into  it ;  an'  then,  wi'  pokun  an'  haulun,  workun 
along.  An'  there  was  a  cry  goed  up, — like  the  cry  of  a 
babby,  'twas,  an'  I  thowt  mubbe  'twas  a  somethun  had 
got  upon  one  o'  they  islands  ;  but  I  said,  agen,  '  How  could 
it  ? '  an'  one  John  Harris  said  'e  thowt 't  was  a  bird.  Then 
another  man  (Moms  'e's  name  was)  started  off  wi'  what 
they  calls  a  gaff,  ('tis  somethun  like  a  short  boat-hook,) 
over  the  bows,  an'  run  ;  an'  we  sid  un  strike,  an'  strike, 
an'  we  hard  it  go  wump  !  wump  !  an'  the  cry  goun  up 
so  tarrible  feelun,  seemed  as  ef  'e  was  murderun  some  poor 
wild  Inden  child  'e  'd  a-found,  (on'y  mubbe  'e  would  n'  do 
so  bad  as  that :  but  there  've  a-been  tarrible  bloody,  cruel 
work  wi'  Indens  in  my  time,)  an'  then  'e  corned  back  wi' 
a  .white-coat  *  over  'e's  shoulder  ;  an'  the  poor  thing  was  n' 
dead,  but  cried  an'  soughed  like  any  poor  little  babby." 

The  young  wife  was  very  restless  at  this  point,  and,  though 
she  did  not  look  up,  I  saw  her  tears.  The  stout  fisherman 
smoothed  out  the  net  a  little  upon  his  knee,  and  drew  it 
in  closer,  and  heaved  a  great  sigh  :  he  did  not  look  at  his 
hearers. 

"When  'e  throwed  it  down,  it  walloped,  an'  cried,  an' 
soughed,  —  an'  its  poor  eyes  blinded  wi'  blood  !  ('Ee  sees, 
sir,"  said  the  planter,  by  way  of  excusing  his  tenderness, 
"  they  swiles  were  friends  to  I,  after.)  Dear,  O  dear !  I 
could  n'  stand  it ;  for  'e  might  ha'  killed  un  ;  an'  so  'e  goes 
for  a  quart  o'  rum,  for  fetchun  first  swile,  an'  I  went  an' 
put  the  poor  thing  out  o'  pain.  I  did  n'  want  to  look  at 
they  beautiful  islands  no  more,  somehow.  Bumby  it  corned 
on  thick,  an'  then  snow. 

"  Nex'  day  swiles  bawlun  t  every  way,  poor  things  !  (I 

*  A  young  seal.  \  Technical  word  for  the  crying  of  the  seals. 


152  A  Raft  that  no  Man  made. 

knowed  their  voice,  now,)  but 't  was  blowun  a  gale  o'  wind, 
an'  we  under  bare  poles,  an'  snow  comun  agen,  so  fast  as 
ever  it  could  come  :  but  out  the  men  'ould  go,  all  mad  like, 
an'  my  watch  goed,  an'  so  I  mus'  go.  (I  did  n'  think  what 
I  was  goun  to  !)  The  skipper  never  said  no  ;  but  to  keep 
near  the  schooner,  an'  fetch  in  first  we  could,  close  by  ;  an' 
keep  near  the  schooner. 

"  So  we  got  abroad,  an'  the  men  that  was  wi'  me  jes 
began  to  knock  right  an'  left :  't  was  heartless  to  see  an' 
hear  it.  They  laved  two  old  uns  an'  a  young  whelp  to  me, 
as  they  runned  by.  The  mother  did  cry  like  a  Christen, 
in  a  manner,  an'  the  big  tears  'ould  run  down,  an'  they  'ould 
both  be  so  brave  for  the  poor  whelp  that  'ould  cuddle  up 
an'  cry  ;  an'  the  mother  looked  this  way  an'  that  way,  wi' 
big,  pooty,  black  eyes,  to  see  what  was  the  manun  of  it, 
when  they  'd  never  doned  any  harm  in  God's  world"  that  'E 
made,  an'  would  n',  even  ef  you  killed  'em  :  on'y  the  poor 
mother  baste  ketched  my  gaff,  that  !  was  goun  to  strike 
wi',  betwixt  her  teeth,  an'  I  could  n'  get  it  away.  'T  was  n' 
like  fishun  !  (I  was  weak  hearted  like  :  I  s'pose  't  was  wi' 
what  was  comun  that  I  did  n'  know.)  Then  corned  a  hail, 
all  of  a  sudden,  from  the  schooner ;  (we  had  n'  been  gone 
mor  n'  a  five  minutes,  ef  't  was  so  much,  —  no,  not  mor  'n 
a  three  :)  but  I  was  glad  to  hear  it  come  then,  however  : 
an'  so  every  man  ran,  one  afore  t'  other.  There  the  schoon- 
er was,  tearun  through  all,  an'  we  runnun  for  dear  life.  I 
failed  among  the  slob,*  and  got  out  agen.  'T  was  another 
man  pushun  agen  me  doned  it.  I  could  n'  'elp  myself  from 
goun  in,  an'  when  I  got  out  I  was  astarn  of  all,  an'  there 
was  the  schooner  carryun  on,  right  through  to  clear  water  ! 
So,  hold  of  a  bight  o'  line,  or  anything  !  an'  they  swung 
up  in  over  bows  an'  sides !  an'  swash  !  she  struck  the 
water,  an'  was  out  o'  sight  in  a  minute  an'  the  snow  drivun 
as  ef  't  would  bury  her,  an'  a  man  laved  behind  on  a  pan 
of  ice,  an'  the  great  black  say  two  fathom  ahead,  an'  the 
storm-wind  blowun  'im  into  it !  " 

*  Broken  ice,  between  large  cakes,  or  against  the  shore. 


A  Raft  that  no  Man  made.  153 

The  planter  stopped  speaking.  We  had  all  gone  along 
so  with  the  story,  that  the  stout  seafarer,  as  he  wrought 
the  whole  scene  up  about  us,  seemed  instinctively  to  lean 
back  and  brace  his  feet  against  the  ground,  and  clutch  his 
net.  The  young  woman  looked  up,  this  time  ;  and  the 
cold  snow-blast  seemed  to  howl  through  that  still  summer's 
noon,  and  the  terrific  ice-fields  and  hills  to  be  crashing 
against  the  solid  earth  that  we  sat  upon,  and  all  things 
round  changed  to  the  far-off  stormy  ocean  and  boundless 
frozen  wastes. 

The  planter  began  to  speak  again  :  — 

"  So  I  failed  right  down  upon  th'  ice,  sayun,  '  Lard,  help 
me  !  Lard,  help  me  ! '  an'  crawlun  away,  wi'  the  snow  in 
my  face,  (I  was  afeard,  a'most,  to  stand,)  '  Lard,  help  me  ! 
Lard,  help  me  ! ' 

"  'T  was  n'  all  hard  ice,  but  many  places  lolly ;  *  an'  once 
I  goed  right  down  wi'  my  hand-wristes  an'  my  armes  in 
cold  water,  part-ways  to  the  bottom  o'  th'  ocean ;  and 
a'most  head-first  into  un,  as  I  'd  a-been  in  wi'  my  legs 
afore  :  but,  thanks  be  to  God !  'E  helped  me  out  of  un, 
but  colder  an'  wetter  agen. 

"In  course  I  wanted  to  folly  the  schooner ;  so  I  runned 
up  along,  a  little  ways  from  the  edge,  an'  then  I  runned 
down  along ;  but  't  was  all  great  black  ocean  outside,  an' 
she  gone  miles  an'  miles  away;  an'  by  two  hours'  time, 
even  ef  she  'd  come  to,  itself,  an'  all  clear  weather,  I  could  n' 
never  see  her ;  an'  ef  she  could  come  back,  she  could  n' 
never  find  me,  more  'n  I  could  find  any  one  o'  the  flakes  o' 
snow.  The  schooner  was  gone,  an'  I  was  laved  out  o' 
the  world  ! 

"  Bumby,  when  I  got  on  the  big  field  agen,  I  stood  up 
on  my  feet,  an'  I  sid  that  was  my  ship  !  She  had  n'  e'er  a 
sail,  an'  she  had  n'  e'er  a  spar,  an'  she  had  n'  e'er  a  compass, 
an'  she  had  n'  e'er  a  helm,  an'  she  had  n'  no  hold,  an'  she 
hadn'  no  cabin.  I  could  n'  sail  her,  nor  I  could  n'  steer 
her,  nor  I  could  n'  anchor  her,  nor  bring  her  to,  but  she 

*  Snow  In  water,  not  yet  frozen,  but  looking  like  the  white  ice. 


154  A  Raft  that  no  Man  made. 

would  go,  wind  or  calm,  an'  she  'd  never  come  to  port,  but 
out  in  th'  ocean  she'd  go  to  pieces  !  I  sid  'twas  so,  an'  I 
must  take  it,  an'  do  my  best  wi'  it.  'T  was  jest  a  great, 
white,  frozen  raft,  driftun  bodily  away,  wi'  storm  blowun 
over,  an'  current  runnun  under,  an'  snow  comun  down  so 
thick,  an'  a  poor  Christen  laved  all  alone  wi'  it.  'T  would 
drift  as  long  as  anything  was  of  it,  an'  't  was  n'  likely  there  'd 
be  any  life  in  the  poor  man  by  time  th'  ice  goed  to  naw- 
thun  ;  an'  the  s wiles  'ould  swim  back  agen  up  to  the  Nothe  ! 

"  I  was  th'  only  one,  seemunly,  to  be  cast  out  alive,  an' 
wi'  the  dearest  maid  in  the  world  (so  I  thought)  waitun  for 
me.  I  s'pose  'ee  might  ha'  knowed  somethun  better,  sir ; 
but  I  wasn'  lamed,  an'  I  ran  so  fast  as  ever  I  could  up 
the  way  I  thowt  home  was,  an'  I  groaned,  an'  groaned,  an' 
shook  my  handes,  an'  then  I  thowt,  '  Mubbe  I  may  be  goun 
wrong  way.'  So  I  groaned  to  the  Lard  to  stop  the  snow. 
Then  I  on'y  ran  this  way  an'  that  way,  an'  groaned  for 
snow  to  knock  off.*  I  knowed  we  was  driftun  mubbe  a 
twenty  leagues  a  day,  and  anyways  I  wanted  to  be  doun 
what  I  could,  keepun  up"  over  th'  Ice  so  well  as  I  could, 
Noofoundland-ways,  an'  I  might  come  to  somethun,  —  to  a 
schooner  or  somethun ;  anyways  I  'd  get  up  so  near  as  I 
could.  So  I  looked  for  a  lee.  I  s'pose  'ee'd  ha'  knowed 
better  what  to  do,  sir,"  said  the  planter,  here  again  appeal- 
ing to  me,  and  showing  by  his  question  that  he  understood 
me,  in  spite  of  my  pea-jacket. 

I  had  been  so  carried  along  with  his  story  that  I  had  felt 
as  if  I  were  the  man  on  the  Ice  myself,  and  assured  him 
that,  though  I  could  get  along  pretty  well  on  land,  and 
could  even  do  something  at  netting,  I  should  have  been 
very  awkward  in  his  place. 

"  Wull,  sir,  I  looked  for  a  lee.  ('T  would  n'  ha'  been  so 
cold,  to  say  cold,  ef  it  had  n'  a-blowed  so  tarrible  hard.) 
First  step,  I  stumbled  upon  somethun  in  the  snow,  seemed 
soft,  like  a  body !  Then  I  corned  all  together,  hopun  an' 
fearun  an'  all  together.  Down  I  goed  upon  my  knees  to 
*  To  stop. 


A  Raft  that  no  Man  made.  155 

un,  an'  I  smoothed  away  the  snow,  all  tremblun,  an'  there 
was  a  moan,  as  ef  't  was  a-livun.  \ 

"<O  Lard!'  I  said,  'who's  this?  Be  this  one  of  our 
men?' 

"  But  how  could  it  ?  Sol  scraped  the  snow  away,  but 
't  was  easy  to  see  't  was  smaller  than  a  man.  There  was  n' 
no  man  on  that  dreadful  place  but  me!  Wull,  sir, 'twas 
a  poor  swile,  wi'  blood  runnun  all  under ;  an'  I  got  my 
cuffs  *  an'  sleeves  all  red  wi'  it.  It  looked  like  a  fellow- 
creatur's  blood,  a'most,  an'  I  was  a  lost  man,  left  to  die 
away  out  there  in  th'  Ice,  an'  I  said, '  Poor  thing !  poor  thing ! ' 
an'  I  did  n'  mind  about  the  wind,  or  th'  ice,  or  the  schooner 
goun  away  from  me  afore  a  gale  (I  'wo^ildn'  mind  about  'em), 
an'  a  poor  lost  Christen  may  show  a  good  turn  to  a  hurt 
thing,  ef 't  was  on'y  a  baste.  So  I  smoothed  away  the  snow 
wi'  my  cuffs,  an'  I  sid  't  was  a  poor  thing  wi'  her  whelp  close 
by  her,  an'  her  tongue  out,  as  ef  she  'd  a-died  fondlun  an' 
lickun  it ;  an'  a  great  puddle  o'  blood,  —  it  looked  tarrible 
heartless,  when  I  was  so  nigh  to  death,  an'  was  n'  hungry. 
An'  then  I  feeled  a  stick,  an'  I  thowt,  '  It  may  be  a  help  to 
me,'  an'  so  I  pulled  un,  an'  it  would  n'  come,  an'  I  found  she 
was  lyun  on  it  so  I  hauled  agen,  an',  when  it  corned,  't  was 
my  gaff  the  poor  baste  had  got  away  from  me,  an'  got  it 
under  her,  an'  she  was  a-lyun  on  it.  Some  o'  the  men,  when 
they  was  runnun  for  dear  life,  must  ha'  struck  'em,  out  o' 
madness  like,  an'  laved  'em  to  die  where  they  was.  'T  was 
the  whelp  was  n'  quite  dead.  'Ee  '11  think  't  was  foolish,  sir, 
but  it  seemed  as  though  they  was  somethun  to  me,  an'  I  'd 
a-lost  the  last  friendly  thing  there  was. 

"  I  found  a  big  hummock  an'  sheltered  under  it,  standun 
on  my  feet,  wi'  nawthun  to  do  but  think,  an'  think,  an'  pray 
to  God ;  an'  so  I  doned.  I  could  n'  help  feelun  to  God 
then,  surely.  Nawthun  to  do,  an'  no  place  to  go,  tull  snow 
cleared  away ;  but  jes'  drift  wi'  the  great  Ice  down  from 
the  Nothe,  away  down  over  the  say,  a  sbcty  mile  a  day, 
mubbe.  I  was  n'  a  good  Christen,  an'  I  could  n'  help 

*  Mittens. 


156  A  Raft  that  no  Man  made. 

a-thinkun  o'  home  an'  she  I  was  troth-plight  wi',  an'  I 
doubled  over  myself  an'  groaned,  —  I  could  n'  help  it :  but 
bumby  it  corned  into  me  to  say  my  prayers,  an'  it  seemed 
as  thof  she  was  askun  me  to  pray,  (an'  she  was  good,  sir, 
al'ays,)  an'. I  seemed  all  opened,  somehow,  an'  I  knowed 
how  to  pray." 

While  the  words  were  coming  tenderly  from,  the  weather- 
beaten  fisherman,  I  could  not  help  being  moved,  and 
glanced  over  toward  the  daughter's  seat ;  but  she  was 
gone,  and,  turning  round,  I  saw  her  going  quietly,  almost 
stealthily,  and  very  quickly,  toward  the  cove. 

The  father  gave  no  heed  to  her  leaving,  but  went  on  with 
his  tale :  — 

"  Then  the  wind  began  to  fall  down,  an'  the  snow  knocked 
off  altogether,  an'  the  sun  corned  out ;  an'  I  sid  th'  Ice, 
field-ice  an'  icebargs,  an'  every  one  of  'em  flashun  up  as  ef 
they  'd  kendled  up  a  bonfire,  but  no  sign  of  a  schooner ! 
no  sign  of  a  schooner !  nor  no  sign  o'  man's  douns,  but 
on'y  ice,  every  way,  high  an'  low,  an'  some  places  black 
water,  in-among ;  an'  on'y  the  poor  swiles  bawlun  all  over, 
an'  I  standun  amongst  'em. 

"While  I  was  lookun  out,  I  sid  a  great  icebarg  (they 
calls  'em)  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  or  thereabouts,  standun 
up,  —  one  end  a  twenty  fathom  out  o'  water,  an'  about  a 
forty  fathom  across,  wi'  hills  like,  an'  houses,  —  an'  then, 
jest  as  ef  'e  was  alive  an'  had  tooked  a  notion  in  'e'sself, 
seemunly,  all  of  a  sudden  'e  rared  up,  an'  turned  over  an' 
over,  wi'  a  tarrible  thunderun  noise,  an'  corned  right  on, 
breakun  everything  an'  throwun  up  great  seas  :  't  was  fright- 
some  for  a  lone  body  away  out  among  'em  !  I  stood  an' 
looked  at  un,  but  then  agen  I  thowt  I  may  jes'  so  well  be 
goun  to  thick  ice  an'  over  Noofoundland-ways  a  piece,  so 
well  as  I  could.  So  I  said  my  bit  of  a  prayer,  an'  told  Un 
I  could  n'  help  myself;  an'  I  made  my  confession  how  bad 
I  'd  been,  an'  I  was  sorry,  an'  ef  'E  'd  be  so  pitiful  an'  for- 
give me  ;  an'  ef  I  mus'  loss  my  life,  ef  'E  'd  be  so  good  as 
make  me  a  good  Christen  first,  —  an'  make  they  happy,  in 
course. 


A  Raft  that  no  Man  made.  157 

"  So  then  I  started  ;  an'  first  I  goed  to  where  my  gaff 
was,  by  the  mother-swile  an'  her  whelp.  There  was  swiles 
every  two  or  three  yards  a'most,  old  uns  an'  young  uns,  all 
round,  everywhere  ;  an'  I  feeled  shamed  in  a  manner :  but 
I  got  my  gaff,  an'  cleaned  un,  an'  then,  in  God's  name,  I 
took  the  big  swile,  that  was  dead  by  its  dead  whelp,  an' 
hauled  it  away,  where  the  t'  other  poor  things  could  n'  si' 
me,  an'  I  sculped  *  it,  an'  took  the  pelt ;  —  for  I  thowt  I  'd 
wear  un,  now  the  poor  dead  thing  did  n'  want  to  make  oose 
of  un  no  more,  —  an'  partly  because  'twas  sech  a  lovun 
thing.  An'  so  I  set  out,  walkun  this  way,  for  a  spurt,  an' 
then  t'  other  way,  keepun  up  mostly  a  Nor-norwest,  so  well 
as  I  could  :  sometimes  away  round  th'  open,  an'  more  times 
round  a  lump  of  ice,  an'  more  times,  agen,  off  from  one  an* 
on  to  another,  every  minute.  I  didn'  feel  hungry,  for  I 
drinked  fresh  water  off  th'  ice.  No  schooner  !  no  schooner  ! 

"  Bumby  the  sun  was  goun  down :  't  was  slow  work 
feelun  my  way  along,  an'  I  did  n'  want  to  look  about :  but 
then  agen  I  thowt  God  'ad  made  it  to  be  sid ;  an'  so  I 
come  to,  an'  turned  all  round,  an'  looked ;  an'  surely  it 
seemed  like  another  world,  some  way,  't  was  so  beautiful,  — 
yellow,  an',  different  sorts  o'  red,  like  the  sky  itself  in  a 
manner,  an'  flashun  like  glass.  So  then  it  corned  night : 
an'  I  thowt  I  should  n'  go  to  bed,  an'  I  may  forget  my 
prayers,  an'  so  I  'd,  mubbe,  best  say  'em  right  away ;  an' 
so  I  doned  :  '  Lighten  our  darkness,'  and  others  we  was 
oosed  to  say  :  an'  it  corned  into  my  mind  the  Lard  said  to 
Saint  Peter,  '  Why  did  n'  'ee  have  faith  ?  '  when  there  was 
nawthun  on  the  water  for  un  to  go  on  ;  an'  I  had  ice  under 
foot,  —  't  was  but  frozen  water,  but  't  was  frozen,  —  an'  I 
thanked  Un. 

"  I  could  n'  help  thinkun  o'*  Brigus  an'  them  I  'd  laved 
in  it,  an'  then  I  prayed  for  'em  ;  an'  I  could  n'  help  cryun, 
a'most :  but  then  I  give  over  agen,  an'  would  n'  think,  ef  I 
could  help  it ;  on'y  tryun  to  say  an  odd  psalm,  all  through 
singun-psalms  an'  other,  for  I  knowed  a  many  of  'em  by 

*  Skinned. 


158  A  Raft  that  no  Man  made. 

singun  wi'  Patience,  on'y  now  I  cared  more  about  'em :  I 
said  that  one,  — 

'  Sech  as  in  ships  an'  brickie  barks 

Into  the  seas  descend, 
Their  merchantun,  through  fearful  floods, 

To  compass  an'  to  end  : 
They  men  are  force-put  to  behold 

The  Lard's  works,  what  they  be  ; 
An'  in  the  dreadful  deep  the  same 

Most  marvellous  they  see.' 

An'  I  said  a  many  more,  (I  can't  be  accountable  how  many 
I  said,)  an'  same  uns  many  times  over  :  for  I  would  keep 
on ;.  an'  'ould  sometimes  sing  'em  very  loud  in  my  poor 
way. 

"  A  poor  baste  (a  silver  fox  'e  was)  corned  an1  looked  at 
me  ;  an'  when  I  turned  round,  he  walked  away  a  piece,  an' 
then  'e  corned  back,  an'  looked. 

"  So  I  found  a  high  piece,  wi'  a  wall  of  ice  atop  for 
shelter,  ef  it  corned  on  to  blow ;  an'  so  I  stood,  an'  said, 
an'  sung.  I  knowed  well  I  was  on'y  driftun  away. 

"  It  was  tarrible  lonely  in  the  night,  when  night  corned : 
it 's  no  use  !  'T  was  tarrible  lonely :  but  I  'ould  n'  think, 
ef  I  could  help  it ;  an'  I  prayed  a  bit,  an'  kep'  up  my 
psalms,  an'  varses  out  o'  the  Bible,  I  'd  a-larned.  I  had  n' 
a-prayed  for  sleep,  but  for  wakun  all  night,  an'  there  I  was 
standun. 

"  The  moon  was  out  agen,  s<5  bright ;  an'  all  the  hills  of 
ice  shinun  up  to  her ;  an'  stars  twinklun,  so  busy,  all  over ; 
an'  No'ther'  Lights  goun  up  wi'  a  faint  blaze,  seemunly, 
from  th'  ice,  an'  meetun  up  aloft ;  an'  sometimes  a  great 
groanun,  an'  more  times  tarrible  loud  shriekun  !  There 
was  great  white  fields,  an'  great  white  hills,  like  countries, 
comun  down  to  be  destroyed  ;  an'  some  great  bargs  a-goun 
faster,  an'  tearun  through,  breakun,  others  to  pieces  ;  an' 
the  groanun  an'  scre'echun,  —  ef  all  the  dead  that  ever  was, 
wi'  their  white  clothes  —  But  no  !  "  said  the  stout  fisherman, 
recalling  himself  from  gazing,  as  he  seemed  to  be,  on  the 
far-off  ghastly  scene,  in  memory. 


A  Raft  that  no  Man  made.  159 

«  No  !  —  an'  thank  'E's  marcy,  I  'm  sittun  by  my  own 
room.  'E  took  me  off :  but  \  was  a  dreadful  sight,  —  it 's 
no  use,  —  ef  a  body  M  let  'e'sself  think  !  I  sid  a  great 
black  bear,  an'  hard  un  growl ;  an'  't  was  feelun,  like,  to 
hear  un  so  bold  an'  so  stout,  among  all  they  dreadful  things, 
an'  bumby  the  time  'ould  come  when  'e  could  n'  save 
'e'sself,  do  what  'e  woul'. 

"  An'  more  times  't  was  all  still :  on'y  swiles  bawlun,  all 
over.  Ef  it  had  n'  a-been  for  they  poor  swiles,  how  could 
I  stan'  it  ?  Many 's  the  one  I  'd  a-ketched,  day-time,  an' 
talked  to  un,  an'  patted  un  on  the  head,  as  ef  they  'd  a-been 
dogs  by  the  door,  like  ;  an'  they  'd  oose  to  shut  their  eyes, 
an'  draw  their  poor  foolish  faces  together.  It  seemed 
neighbor-like  to  have  some  live  thing. 

"  So  I  kep'  awake,  sayun  an'  singun,  an'  it  was  n'  very 
cold  ;  an'  so  —  first  thing  I  knowed,  I  started,  an  there  I 
was  lyun  in  a  heap  ;  an'  I  must  have  been  asleep,  an'  did  n' 
know  how  't  was,  nor  how  long  I  'd  a-been  so  :  an'  some 
sort  o'  baste  started  away,  an'  'e  must  have  waked  me  up  ; 
I  could  n'  rightly  see  what  't  was,  wi'  sleepiness  :  an'  then 
I  hard  a  sound,  sounded  like  breakers  ;  an'  that  waked  me 
fairly.  'T  was  like  a  lee-shore  ;  an'  't  was  a  comfort  to 
think  o'  land,  ef  't  was  on'y  to  be  wrecked  on  itself ;  but  I 
did  n'  go,  an'  I  stood  an'  listened  to  un  ;  an'  now  an'  agen 
I  'd  walk  a  piece,  back  an'  forth,  an'  back  an'  forth ;  an'  so 
I  passed  a  many,  many  longsome  hours,  seemunly,  tull 
night  goed  down  tarrible  slowly,  an'  it  corned  up  day  o' 
t'  other  side  :  an'  there  was  n'  no  land  ;  nawthun  but  great 
mountains  meltun  an'  breakun  up,  an'  fields  wastun  away. 
I  sid  'twas  a  rollun  barg  made  the  noise  like  breakers, 
throwun  up  great  seas  o'  both  sides  of  un.;  no  sight  nor 
sign  o'  shore,  nor  ship,  but  dazun  white,  —  enough  to  blind 
a  body,  —  an'  I  knowed  't  was  all  floatun  away,  over  the 
say.  Then  I  said  my  prayers,  an'  tooked  a  drink  o'  water, 
an'  set  out  agen  for  Nor-norwest :  'twas  all  I  could  do. 
Sometimes  snow,  an'  more  times  fair  agen ;  but  no  sign 
o'  man's  things,  an'  no  sign  o'  land,  on'y  white  ice  an'  black 


160  A  Raft  that  no  Man  made. 

water ;  an  'ef  a  schooner  was  n'  into  un  a'ready,  't  was  n' 
likely  they  woul',  for  we  was  gettun  furder  an'  furder  away. 
Tired  I  was  wi'  goun,  though  I  had  n'  walked  more  n'  a 
twenty  or  thirty  mile,  mubbe,  an'  it  all  comun  down  so  fast 
as  I  could  go  up,  an'  faster,  an'  never  stoppun  !  'T  was  a 
tarrible  long  journey  up  over  the  driftun  ice,  at  sea !  So, 
then  I  went  on  a  high  bit  to  wait  tull  all  was  done  :  I  thowt 
't  would  be  last  to  melt,  an'  mubbe,  I  thowt,  'e  may  capsize 
wi'  me,  when  I  did  n'  know  (for  I  don't  say  I  was  stout- 
hearted) :  an'  I  prayed  Un  to  take  care  o'  them  I  loved ; 
an'  the  tears  corned.  Then  I  felt  somethun  tryun  to  turn 
me  round  like,  an'  it  seemed  as  ef  she  was  doun  it,  some- 
how, an'  she  seemed  to  be  very  nigh,  somehow,  an'  I  did  n' 
look. 

"  After  a  bit,  I  got  up  to  look  out  where  most  swiles  was, 
for  company,  while  I  was  livun  :  an'  the  first  look  struck 
me  a'most  like  a  bullet!  There  I  sid  a  sail!  'Twas  a 
sail,  an'  't  was  like  heaven  openun,  an'  God  settun  her  down 
there.  About  three  mile  away  she  was,  to  nothe'ard,  in  th' 
Ice. 

"  I  could  ha'  sid,  at  first  look,  what  schooner  't  was  ;  but 
I  did  n'  want  to  look  hard  at  her.  I  kep'  my  peace,  a  spurt, 
an'  then  I  runned  an'  bawled  out.  '  Glory  be  to  God  ! '  an' 
then  I  stopped  an'  made  proper  thanks  to  Un.  An'  there 
she  was,  same  as  ef  I  'd  a-walked  off  from  her  an  hour 
ago  !  It  felt  so  long  as  ef  I  'd  been  livun  years,  an'  they 
would  n'  know  me,  sca'ce.  Somehow  I  did  n'  think  I  could 
come  up  wi'  her. 

"  I  started,  in  the  name  o'  God,  wi'  all  my  might,  an' 
went,  an'  went,  —  't  was  a  five  mile,  wi'  goun  round,  —  an' 
got  her,  thank  God  !  'T  was  n'  the  Baccaloue,  (I  sid  that 
long  before,)  't  was  t'  other  schooner,  the  Sparrow,  repairun 
damages  they'd  got  day  before.  So  that  kep'  !em  there, 
an'  I  'd  a-been  took  from  one  an'  brought  to  t'  other. 

"  I  could  n'  do  a  hand's  turn  tull  we  got  into  the  Bay 
agen,  —  I  was  so  clear  beat  out.  The  Sparrow  kep'  her 
men,  an'  fotch  home  about  thirty-eight  hundred  swiles,  an' 


A  Raft  that  no  Man  made.  161 

a  poor  man  off  th'  Ice  :  but  they,  poor  fellows,  that  I  went 
out  wi'  never  corned  no  more  ;  an'  I  never  went  agen. 

"  I  kep'  the  skin  o'  the  poor  baste,  sir :  that 's  'e  on  my 
cap." 

When  the  planter  had  fairly  finished  his  tale,  it  was  a 
little  while  before  I  could  teach  my  eyes  to  see  the  things 
about  me  in  their  places.  The  slow-going  sail,  outside,  I 
at  first  saw  as  the  schooner  that  brought  away  the  lost  man 
from  the  Ice ;  the  green  of  the  earth  would  not,  at  first, 
show  itself  through  the  white  with  which  the  fancy  covered 
it ;  and  at  first  I  could  not  quite  feel  that  the  ground  was 
fast  under  my  feet  I  even  mistook  one  of  my  own  men 
(the  sight  of  whom  was  to  warn  me  that  I  was  wanted 
elsewhere)  for  one  of  the  crew  of  the  schooner  Sparrow  of 
a  generation  ago. 

I  got  the  tale  and  its  scene  gathered  away,  presently, 
inside  my  mind,  and  shook  myself  into  a  present  associa- 
tion with  surrounding  things,  and  took  my  leave.  I  went 
away  the  more  gratified  that  I  had  a  chance  of  lifting  my 
cap  to  a- matron,  dark-haired  and  comely,  (who,  I  was  sure, 
at  a  glance,  had  once  been  the  maiden  of  Benjie  West- 
ham's  "  troth-plight,")  and  receiving  a  handsome  courtesy 
in  return. 

K 


WHY  THOMAS  WAS   DISCHARGED. 


RANT  Beach  is  a  long  promontory  of  rock  and 
sand,  jutting  out  at  an  acute  angle  from  a  barren 
portion  of  the  coast.  Its  farthest  extremity  is 
marked  by  a  pile  of  many-colored,  wave-washed  bowlders  ; 
its  junction  with  the  mainland  is  the  site  of  the  Brant 
House,  a  watering-place  of  excellent  repute. 

The  attractions  of  this  spot  are  not  numerous.  There  is 
surf-bathing  all  along  the  outer  side  of  the  beach,  and  good 
swimming  on  the  inner.  The  fishing  is  fair ;  and  in  still 
weather,  yachting  is  rather  a  favorite  amusement.  Further 
than  this,  there  is  little  to  be  said,  save  that  the  hotel  is 
conducted  upon  liberal  principles,  and  the  society  generally 
select. 

But  to  the  lover  of  Nature,  —  and  who  has  the  courage 
to  avow  himself  aught  else  ?  —  the  sea-shore  can  never  be 
monotonous.  The  swirl  and  sweep  of  ever-shifting  waters, 
—  the  flying  mist  of  foam  breaking  away  into  a  gray  and 
ghostly  distance  down  the  beach,  —  the  eternal  drone  of 
ocean,  mingling  itself  with  one's  talk  by  day  and  with  the 
light  dance-music  in  the  parlors  by  night,  —  all  these  are 
active  sources  of  a  passive  pleasure.  And  to  lie  at  length 
upon  the  tawny  sand,  watching,  through  half-closed  eyes, 
the  heaving  waves,  that  mount  against  a  dark-blue  sky 
wherein  great  silvery  masses  of  cloud  float  idly  on,  whiter 
than  the  sunlit  sails  that  fade  and  grow  and  fade  along  the 
horizon,  while  some  fair  damsel  sits  close  by,  reading  an- 
cient ballads  of  a  simple  metre,  or  older  legends  of  love 


Why  Thomas  was  Discharged.  163 

and  romance,  —  tell  me,  my  eater  of  the  fashionable  lotbs, 
is  not  this  a  diversion  well  worth  your  having  ? 

There  is  an  air  of  easy  sociality  among  the  guests  at  the 
Brant  House,  a  disposition  on  the  part  of  all  to  contribute 
to  the  general  amusement,  that  makes  a  summer  sojourn 
on  the  beach  far  more  agreeable  than  in  certain  larger, 
more  frequented  watering-places,  where  one  is  always  in 
danger  of  discovering  that  the  gentlemanly  person  with 
whom  he  has  been  fraternizing  is  a  faro-dealer,  or  that  the 
lady  who  has  half  fascinated  him  is  Anonyma  herself. 
Still,  some  consider  the  Brant  rather  slow,  and  many  good 
folk  were  a  trifle  surprised  when  Mr.  Edwin  Salisbury  and 
Mr.  Charles  Burnham  arrived  by  the  late  stage  from  Wika- 
hasset  Station,  with  trunks  enough  for  two  first-class  belles, 
and  a  most  unexceptional  man-servant  in  gray  livery,  in 
charge  of  two  beautiful  setter-dogs. 

These  gentlemen  seemed  to  have  imagined  that  they  were- 
about  visiting  some  backwoods  wilderness,  some  savage 
tract  of  country,  "  remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow  "  ; 
for  they  brought  almost  everything  with  them  that  men  of 
elegant  leisure  could  require,  as  if  the  hotel  were  but  four 
walls  and  a  roof,  which  they  must  furnish  with  their  own 
chattels.  I  am  sure  it  took  Thomas,  the  man-servant,  a 
whole  day  to  unpack  the  awnings,  the  bootjacks,  the  game- 
bags,  the  cigar-boxes,  the  guns,  the  camp-stools,  the  liquor- 
cases,  the  bathing-suits,  and  other  paraphernalia  that  these 
pleasure-seekers  brought.  It  must  be  owned,  however,  that 
their  room,  a  large  one  in  the  Bachelor's  Quarter,  facing 
the  sea,  wore  a  very  comfortable,  sportsmanlike  look,  when 
all  was  arranged. 

Thus  surrounded,  the  young  men  betook  themselves  to 
the  deliberate  pursuit  of  idle  pleasures.  They  arose  at 
nine  and  went  down  to  the  shore,  invariably  returning  at 
ten  with  one  unfortunate  snipe,  which  was  preserved  on  ice, 
with  much  ceremony,  till  wanted.  At  this  rate,  it  took 
them  a  week  to  shoot  a  breakfast;  but  to  see  them  sally' 
forth,  splendid  in  velveteen  and  corduroy,  with  top-boots  and 


164  Why  Thomas  was  Discharged. 

a  complete  harness  of  green  cord  and  patent-leather  straps, 
you  would  have  imagined  that  all  game-birds  were  about  to 
become  extinct  in  that  region.  Their  dogs,  even,  recog- 
nized this  great-cry-and-little-wool  condition  of  things,  and 
bounded  off  joyously  at  the  start,  but  came  home  crest- 
fallen, with  an  air  of  canine  humiliation  that  would  have 
aroused  Mr.  Mayhew's  tenderest  sympathies. 

After  breakfasting,  usually  in  their  room,  the  friends  en- 
joyed a  long  and  contemplative  smoke  upon  the  wide 
piazza  in  front  of  their  windows,  listlessly  regarding  the 
ever-varied  marine  view  that  lay  before  them  in  flash- 
ing breadth  and  beauty.  Their  next  labor  was  to  array 
themselves  in  wonderful  morning-costumes  of  very  shaggy 
English  cloth,  shiny  flasks  and  field-glasses  about  their 
shoulders,  and  loiter  down  the  beach,  to  the  point  and  back, 
making  much  unnecessary  effort  over  the  walk,  —  a  brief 
mile,  —  which  they  spoke  of  with  importance,  as  their  "con- 
stitutional." This  killed  time  till  bathing-hour,  and  then 
came  another  smoke  on  the  piazza,  and  another  toilet,  for 
dinner.  After  dinner,  a  siesta:  in  the  room,  when  the 
weather  was  fresh ;  when  otherwise,  in  hammocks,  hung 
from  the  rafters  of  the  piazza.  When  they  had  been  domi- 
ciled a  few  days,  they  found  it  expedient  to  send  home  for 
what  they  were  pleased  to  term  their  "  crabs  "  and  "  traps," 
and  excited  the  envy  of  less  fortunate  guests  by  driving  up 
and  down  the  beach  at  a  racing  gait  to  dissipate  the  lan- 
guor of  the  after-dinner  sleep. 

This  was  their  regular  routine  for  the  day,  —  varied,  oc- 
casionally, when  the  tide  served,  by  a  fishing-trip  down  the 
narrow  bay  inside  the  point.  For  such  emergencies,  they 
provided  themselves  with  a  sail-boat  and  .skipper,  hired  for 
the  whole  season,  and  arrayed  themselves  in  a  highly 
nautical  rig.  The  results  were,  large  quantities  of  sardines 
and  pale  sherry  consumed  by  the  young  men,  and  a  reason- 
able number  of  sea-bass  and  black-fish  caught  by  their 
skipper. 

There  were  no  regular  "hops"  at  the  Brant  House,  but 


Why  Thomas  was  Discharged.  165 

dancing  in  a  quiet  way  every  evening,  to  a  flute,  violin, 
and  violoncello,  played  by  some  of  the  waiters.  For  a 
time,  Burnham  and  Salisbury  did  not  mingle  much  in  these 
festivities,  but  loitered  about  the  halls  and  piazzas,  very 
elegantly  dressed  and  barbered,  (Thomas  was  an  unrivalled 
coiffeur})  and  apparently  somewhat  ennuye. 

That  two  well-made,  full-grown,  intelligent,  and  healthy 
young  men  should  lead  such  a  life  as  this  for  an  entire 
summer  might  surprise  one  of  a  more  active  temperament. 
The  aimlessness  and  vacancy  of  an  existence  devoted  to 
no  earthly  purpose  save  one's  own  comfort  must  soon  weary 
any  man  who  knows  what  is  the  meaning  of  real,  earnest 
life,  —  life  with  a  battle  to  be  fought  and  a  victory  to  be 
won.  But  these  elegant  young  gentlemen  comprehended 
nothing  of  all  that:  they  had  been  born  with  golden 
spoons  in  their  mouths,  and  educated  only  to  swallow  the 
delicately  insipid  lotos-honey  that  flows  inexhaustibly  from 
such  shining  spoons.  Clothes,  complexions,  polish  of  man- 
ner, and  the  avoidance  of  any  sort  of  shock,  were  the 
simple  objects  of  their  solicitude. 

I  do  not  know  that  I  have  any  serious  quarrel  with  such 
fellows,  after  all.  They  have  some  strong  virtues.  They 
are  always  clean ;  and  your  rough  diamond,  though  manly 
and  courageous  as  Cceur-de-Lion,  is  not  apt  to  be  scrupu- 
lously nice  in  his  habits.  Affability  is  another  virtue.  The 
Salisbury  and  Burnham  kind  of  man  bears  malice  toward 
no  one,  and  is  disagreeable  only  when  assailed  by  some  ham- 
mer-and-tongs  utilitarian.  All  he  asks  is  to  be  permitted 
to  idle  away  his  pleasant  life  unmolested.  Lastly,  he  is 
extremely  ornamental.  We  all  like  to  see  pretty  things  ; 
and  I  am  sure  that  Charley  Burnham,  in  his  fresh  white 
duck  suit,  with  his  fine,  thoroughbred  face  —  gentle  as  a 
girl's  —  shaded  by  a  snowy  Panama,  his  blonde  moustache 
carefully  pointed,  his  golden  hair  clustering  in  the  most 
picturesque  possible  waves,  his  little  red  neck-ribbon  —  the 
only  bit  of  color  in  his  dress  —  tied  in  a  studiously  careless 
knot,  and  his  pure,  untainted  gloves  of  pearl-gray  or 


1 66  Why  Thomas  was  Discharged. 

lavender,  was,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expression,  just  as 
pretty  as  a  picture.  And  Ned  Salisbury  was  not  less  "  a 
joy  forever,"  according  to  the  dictum  of  the  late  Mr.  Keats. 
He  was  darker  than  Burnham,  with  very  black  hair,  and 
a  moustache  worn  in  the  manner  the  French  call  triste, 
which  became  him,  and  increased  the  air  of  pensive  melan- 
choly that  distinguished  his  dark  eyes,  thoughtful  attitudes, 
and  slender  figure.  Not  that  he  was  in  the  least  degree 
pensive  or  melancholy,  or  that  he  had  cause  to  be ;  quite 
the  contrary ;  but  it  was  his  style,  and  he  did  it  well. 

These  two  butterflies  sat,  one  afternoon,  upon  the  piazza, 
smoking  very  large  cigars,  lost,  apparently,  in  profoundest 
meditation.  Burnham,  with  his  graceful  head  resting  upon 
one  delicate  hand,  his  clear  blue  eyes  full  of  a  pleasant  light, 
and  his  face  warmed  by  a  calm  unconscious  smile,  might 
have  been  revolving  some  splended  scheme  of  universal 
philanthropy.  The  only  utterance,  however,  forced  from 
him  by  the  sublime  thoughts  that  permeated  his  soul,  was 
the  emission  of  a  white  rolling  volume  of  fragrant  smoke, 
accompanied  by  two  words  : 

"Dooced  hot!" 

Salisbury  did  not  reply.  He  sat,  leaning  back,  with  his 
fingers  interlaced  behind  his  head,  and  his  shadowy  eyes 
downcast,  as  in  sad  remembrance  of  some  long-lost  love. 
So  might  a  poet  have  looked,  while  steeped  in  mournfully 
rapturous  day-dreams  of  remembered  passion  and  sever- 
ance. So  might  Tennyson's  hero  have  mused,  when  he 
sang,  — 

"  O,  that  'twere  possible, 

After  long  grief  and  pain, 
To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 
Round  me  once  again  ! " 

But  the  poetic  lips  opened  not  to  such  numbers.  Salisbury 
gazed,  long  and  earnestly,  and  finally  gave  vent  to  his  emo- 
tions, indicating,  with  the  amber  tip  of  his  cigar-tube,  the 
setter  that  slept  in  the  sunshine  at  his  feet. 

"  Shocking  place,  this,  for  dogs  !  "  —  I  regret  to  say  he 


Why  Thomas  was  Discharged.  167 

pronounced  it  "  dawgs."  —  "  Why,  Carlo  is  as  fat  —  as  fat 
as  —  as  a  —  " 

His  mind  was  unequal  to  a  simile,  even,  and  he  termi- 
nated the  sentence  in  a  murmur. 

More  silence ;  more  smoke ;  more  profound  meditation. 
Directly,  Charley  Burnham  looked  around  with  some  show 
of  vitality. 

"  There  comes  the  stage,"  said  he. 

The  driver's  bugle  rang  merrily  among  the  drifted  sand- 
hills that  lay  warm  and  glowing  in  the  orange  light  of  the 
setting  sun.  The  young  men  leaned  forward  over  the 
piazza-rail,  and  scrutinized  the  occupants  of  the  vehicle,  as 
it  appeared. 

"  Old  gentleman  and  lady,  aw,  and  two  children,"  said 
Ned  Salisbury ;  "  I  hoped  there  would  be  some  nice  girls." 

This,  in  a  voice  of  ineffable  tenderness  and  poetry,  but 
with  that  odd,  tired  little  drawl,  so  epidemic  in  some  of  our 
universities. 

"  Look  there,  by  Jove  !  "  cried  Charley,  with  a  real  inter- 
est at  last ;  "  now  that 's  what  I  call  the  regular  thing  ! " 

The  "  regular  thing  "  was  a  low,  four-wheeled  pony-chaise 
of  basket-work,  drawn  by  two  jolly  little  fat  ponies,  black 
and  shiny  as  vulcanite,  which  jogged  rapidly  in,  just  far 
enough  behind  the  stage  to  avoid  its  dust. 

This  vehicle  was  driven  by  a  young  lady  of  decided 
beauty,  with  a  spice  of  Amazonian  spirit.  She  was  rather 
slender  and  very  straight,  with  a  jaunty  little  hat  and 
feather  perched  coquettishly  above  her  dark-brown  hair, 
which  was  arranged  in  one  heavy  mass  and  confined  in  a 
silken  net.  Her  complexion  was  clear,  without  brilliancy  ; 
her  eyes  blue  as  the  ocean  horizon,  and  spanned  by  sharp, 
characteristic  brows  ;  her  mouth  small  and  decisive ;  and 
her  whole  cast  of  features  indicative  of  quick  talent  and 
independence. 

Upon  the  seat  beside  her  s%t  another  damsel,  leaning 
indolently  back  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage.  This  one 
was  a  little  fairer  than  the  first,  having  one  of  those  beauti- 


1 68  Why  Thomas  was  Discharged. 

ful  English  complexions  of  mingled  rose  and  snow,  and  a 
dash  of  gold-dust  in  her  hair,  where  the  sun  touched  it. 
Her  eyes,  however,  were  dark  hazel,  and  full  of  fire,  shaded 
and  intensified  by  their  long,  sweeping  lashes.  Her  mouth 
was  a  rose-bud,  and  her  chin  and  throat  faultless  in  the 
delicious  curve  of  their  lines.  In  a  word,  she  was  some- 
what of  the  Venus-di-Milo  type  :  her  companion  was  more 
of  a  Diana.  Both  were  neatly  habited  in  plain  travelling- 
dresses  and  cloaks  of  black  and  white  plaid,  and  both 
seemed  utterly  unconscious  of  the  battery  of  eyes  and  eye- 
glasses that  enfiladed  them  from  the  whole  length  of  the 
piazza,  as  they  passed. 

"  Who  are  they  ? "  asked  Salisbury ;  "  I  don't  know 
them." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Burnham ;  "  but  they  look  like  -people  to 
know.  They  must  be  somebody." 

Half  an  hour  later,  the  hotel-office  was  besieged  by  a 
score  of  young  men,  all  anxious  for  a  peep  at  the  last 
names  upon  the  register.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  our 
friends  were  not  in  the  crowd.  Ned  Salisbury  was  no  more 
the  man  to  exhibit  curiosity  than  Charley  Burnham  was 
the  man  to  join  in  a  scramble  for  anything  under  the  sun. 
They  had  educated  their  emotions  clear  down,  out  of  sight, 
and  piled  upon  them  a  mountain  of  well-bred  inertia. 

But,  somehow  or  other,  these  fellows  who  take  no  trouble 
are  always  the  first  to  gain  the  end.  A  special  Providence 
seems  to  aid  the  poor,  helpless  creatures.  So,  while  the 
crowd  still  pressed  at  the  office-desk,  Jerry  Swayne,  the 
head  clerk,  happened  to  pass  directly  by  the  piazza  where 
the  inert  ones  sat,  and,  raising  a  comical  eye,  saluted  them. 

"  Heavy  arrivals  to-night.     See  the  turn-out  ?  " 

"  Y-e-s,"  murmured  Ned. 

"  Old  Chapman  and  family.  His  daughter  drove  the 
pony-phaeton,  with  her  friend,  a  Miss  Thurston.  Regular 
nobby  ones.  Chapman 's  the  steamship-man,  you  know. 
Worth  thousands  of  millions  !  I  'd  like  to  be.  connected 
with  his  family — 'by  marriage,  say  !  "  —  and  Jerry  went  off, 


Why  Thomas  was  Discharged.  169 

rubbing  his  cropped  head,  and  smiling  all  over,  as  was  his 
wont. 

"I  know  who  they  are  now,"  said  Charley.  "Met  a 
cousin  of  theirs,  Joe  Faulkner,  abroad,  two  years  ago. 
Dooced  fine  fellow.  Army." 

The  manly  art  of  wagoning  is  not  pursued  very  vigor- 
ously at  Brant  Beach.  The  roads  are  too  heavy  back  from 
the  water,  and  the  drive  is  confined  to  a  narrow  strip 
of  wet  sand  along  the  shore;  so  carriages  are  few,  and 
the  pony-chaise  became  a  distinguished  element  at  once. 
Salisbury  and  Burnham  whirled  past  it  in  their  light  trot- 
ting-wagons  at  a  furious  pace,  and  looked  hard  at  the  two 
young  ladies  in  passing,  but  withaut  eliciting  even  the 
smallest  glance  from  them  in  return. 

u  Confounded  tifc/**ttg"tt^-looking  girls,  and  all  that,"  owned 
Ned ;  "  but,  aw,  fearfully  unconscious  of  a  fellow  ! " 

This  condition  of  matters  continued  until  the  young  men 
were  actually  driven  to  acknowledge  to  each  other  that 
they  should  not  mind  knowing  the  occupants  of  the  pony- 
carriage.  It  was  a  great  concession,  and  was  rewarded 
duly.  A  bright,  handsome  boy  of  seventeen,  Miss  Thurs- 
ton's  brother,  came  to  pass  a  few  days  at  the  seaside,  and 
fraternized  'with  everybody,  but  was  especially  delighted 
with  Ned  Salisbury,  who  took  him  out  sailing  and  shooting, 
and,  I  am  afraid,  gave  him  cigars  stealthily,  when  out  of 
range  of  Miss  Thurston's  fine  eyes.  The  result  was,  that 
the  first  time  the  lad  walked  on  the  beach  with  the  two 
girls,  and  met  the  young  men,  introductions  of  an  enthusi- 
astic nature  were  instantly  sprung  upon  them.  An  attempt 
at  conversation  followed. 

"  How  do  you  like  Brant  Beach  ?  "  asked  Ned. 

"  O,  it  is  a  pretty  place,"  said  Miss  Chapman,  "  but  not 
lively  enough." 

"Well,  Burnham  and  I  find  it  pleasant;  aw,  we  have 
lots  of  fun." 

"  Indeed  !     Why,  what  do  you  do  ?  " 

"  O,  I  don't  know.     Everything." 


170  Why  Thomas  was  Discharged. 

"Is  the  shooting  good  ?  I  saw  you  with  your  guns, 
yesterday." 

"Well,  there  is  n't  a  great  deal  of  game.  There  is  some 
fishing,  but  we  have  n't  caught  much." 

"How  do  you  kill  time,  then?" 

Salisbury  looked  puzzled. 

"  Aw  —  it  is  a  first-rate  air,  you  know.  The  table  is  good, 
and  you  can  sleep  like  a  top.  And  then,  you  see,  I  like  to 
smoke  around,  and  do  nothing,  on  the  sea-shore.  It  is 
real  jolly  to  lie  on  the  sand,  aw,  with  all  sorts  of  little  bugs 
running  over  you,  and  listen  to  the  water  swashing  about !  " 

"  Let 's  try  it ! "  cried  vivacious  Miss  Chapman ;  and 
down  she  sat  on  the  *sand.  The  others  followed  her  ex- 
ample, and  in  five  minutes  they  were  picking  up  pretty 
pebbles  and  chatting  away  as  sociably  as  could  be.  The 
rumble  of  the  warning  gong  surprised  them. 

At  dinner,  Burnham  and  Salisbury  took  seats  opposite 
the  ladies,  and  were  honored  with  an  introduction  to  papa 
and  mamma,  a  very  dignified,  heavy,  rosy,  old-school  couple, 
who  ate  a  good  deal,  and  said  very  little.  That  evening, 
when  flute  and  viol  wooed  the  lotos-eaters  to  agitate  the 
light  fantastic  toe,  these  young  gentlemen  found  themselves 
in  dancing  humor,  and  revolved  themselves  into  a  grievous 
condition  of  glow  and  wilt,  in  various  mystic  and  intoxicat- 
ing measures  with  their  new-made  friends. 

On  retiring,  somewhat  after  midnight,  Miss  Thurston 
paused,  while  "  doing  her  hair,"  and  addressed  Miss  Chap- 
man. 

"  Did  you  observe,  Hattie,  how  very  handsome  those 
gentlemen  are  ?     Mr.  Burnham  looks  like  a  prince  of  the 
sang  azur,  and  Mr.  Salisbury  like  his  poet-laureate."  t 
.    "  Yes,  dear,"  responded  Hattie  ;  "  I  have  been  consider- 
ing those  flowers  of  the  field  and  lilies  of  the  valley." 

"Ned,"  said  Charley,  at  about  the  same  time,  "we  won't 
find  anything  nicer  here,  this  season,  I  think." 

"They're  pretty  well  worth  while,"  replied  Ned;  "and 
I  'm  rather  pleased  with  them." 


Why  Thomas  was  Discharged.  171 

"Which  do  you  like  best?" 

"  O,  bother  !     I  have  n't  thought  of  that  yet." 

The  next  day  the  young  men  delayed  their  "constitu- 
tional "  until  the  ladies  were  ready  to  walk,  and  the  four 
strolled  off  together,  mamma  and  the  children  following 
in  the  pony-chaise.  At  the  rocks  on  the  end  of  the  point, 
Ned  got  his  feet  very  wet,  fishing  up  specimens  of  sea- 
weed for  the  damsels  ;  and  Charley  exerted  himself  super- 
humanly  in  assisting  them  to  a  ledge  which  they  considered 
favorable  for  sketching  purposes. 

In  the  afternoon  a  sail  was  arranged,  and  they  took  din- 
ner on  board  the  boat,  with  any  amount  of  hilarity  and  a 
good  deal  of  discomfort.  In  the  evening,  more  dancing, 
and  vigorous  attentions  to  both  the  young  ladies,  but  with- 
out a  shadow  of  partiality  being  -shown  by  either  of  the 
four. 

This  was  very  nearly  the  history  of  many  days.  It  does 
not  take  long  to  get  acquainted  with  people  who  are  willing, 
especially  at  a  watering-place ;  and  in  the  course  of  a  few 
weeks,  these  young  folks  were,  to  all  intents  and  purposes, 
old  friends,  —  calling  each  other  by  their  given  names,  and 
conducting  themselves  with  an  easy  familiarity  quite  charm- 
ing to  behold.  Their  amusements  were  mostly  in  common 
now.  The  light  wagons  were  made  to  hold  two  each,  in- 
stead of  one,  and  the  matinal  snipe  escaped  death,  and 
was  happy  over  his  early  worm. 

One  day,  however,  Laura  Thurston  had  a  headache,  and 
Hattie  Chapman  stayed  at  home  to  take  care  of  her  ;  so 
Burnham  and  Salisbury  had  to  amuse  themselves  alone. 
They  took  their  boat,  and  idled  about  the  water,  inside 
the  point,  dozing  under  an  awning,  smoking,  gaping,  and 
wishing  that  headaches  were  out  of  fashion,  while  the 
taciturn  and  tarry  skipper  instructed  the  dignified  and 
urbane  Thomas  in  the  science  of  trolling  for  blue-fish. 

At  length  Ned  tossed  his  cigar-end  overboard,  and  braced 
himself  for  an  effort. 

"  I  say,  Charley,"  said  he,  "  this  sort  of  thing  can't  go  on 
forever,  you  know.  I  Ve  been  thinking,  lately." 


1/2  Why  Thomas  was  Discharged. 

"  Phenomenon  !  "  replied  Charley ;  "  and  what  have  you 
been  thinking  about?" 

"  Those  girls.     We  Ve  got  to  choose." 

"  Why  ?     Is  n't  it  well  enough  as  it  is  ? " 

"  Yes,  —  so  far.  But  I  think,  aw,  that  we  don't  quite  do 
them  justice.  They  're  grands  partis,  you  see.  I  hate  to 
see  clever  girls  wasting  themselves  on  society,  waiting  and 
waiting,  —  and  we  fellows  swimming  about  just  like  fish 
round  a  hook  that  is  n't  baited  properly." 

Charley  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Ned,  that  you  have  matri- 
monial intentions  ?  " 

"  O,  no  !  Still,  why  not  ?  We  Ve  all  got  to  come  to  it, 
some  day,  I  suppose." 

"  Not  yet,  though.  It  is  a  sacrifice  we  can  escape  for 
some  years  yet." 

"  Yes,  —  of  course,  —  some  years  ;  but  we  may  begin  to 
look  about  us  a  bit.  I  'm,  aw,  I  'm  six-and-twenty,  you 
know." 

"  And  I  'm  very  near  that.  I  suppose  a  fellow  can't  put 
off  the  yoke  too  long.  After  thirty,  chances  are  n't  so  good. 
I  don't  know,  by  Jove  !  but  what  we  ought  to  begin  think- 
ing of  it." 

"  But  it  is  a  sacrifice.  Society  must  lose  a  fellow,  though, 
one  time  or  another.  And  I  don't  believe  we  will  ever  do 
better  than  we  can  now." 

"Hardly,  I  suspect." 

"  And  we  're  keeping  other  fellows  away,  maybe.  It  is  a 
shame  ! " 

Thomas  ran  his  line  in  rapidly,  with  nothing  on  the  hook. 

"  Capt'n  Hull,"  he  said,  gravely,  "  I  had  the  biggest  kind 
of  a  fish  then,  I  'm  sure  ;  but  d'rectly  I  went  to  pull  him  in, 
sir,  he  took  and  let  go." 

"  Yaas,"  muttered  the  taciturn  skipper,  "  the  biggest  fish 
allers  falls  back  inter  the  waiter." 

"  I  Ve  been  thinking  a  little  about  this  matter,  too,"  said 
Charley,  after  a  pause,  "and  I  had  about  concluded. we 


Why  Thomas  was  Discharged.  173 

ought  to  pair  off.  But  1 11  be  confounded,  if  I  know  which 
I  like  best !  They  're  both  nice  girls." 

"There  is  n't  much  choice,"  Ned  replied.  "  If  they  were 
as  different,  now,  as  you  and  me,  I  'd  take  the  blonde,  of 
course ;  aw,  and  you  'd  take  the  brunette.  But  Hattie 
Chapman's  eyes  are  blue,  and  her  hair  isn't  black,  you 
know ;  so  you  can't  call  her  dark,  exactly." 

"  No  more  than  Laura  is  exactly  light.  Her  hair  is 
brown,  more  than  golden,  and  her  eyes  are  hazel.  Has  ift 
she  a  lovely  complexion,  though  ?  By  Jove  !  " 

"Better  than  Hattie's.  Yet  I  don't  know  but  Hattie's 
features  are  a  little  the  best." 

"They  are.  Now,  honest,  Ned,  which  do  you  prefer? 
Say  either ;  I  '11  take  the  one  you  don't  want.  I  have  n't 
any  choice." 

"  Neither  have  I." 

"How  will  we  settle?" 

"Aw  — throw  for  it?" 

"  Yes.  Is  n't  there  a  backgammon-board  forward,  in  that 
locker,  Thomas?" 

The  board  was  found,  and  the  dice  produced. 

"  The  highest  takes  which  ?  " 

"Say,  Laura  Thurston." 

"Very  good;  throw." 

"You  first." 

"  No.     Go  on." 

Charley  threw,  with  about  the  same  amount  of  excite- 
ment he  might  have  exhibited  in  a  turkey-raffle. 

u  Five-three,"  said  he.     "  Now  for  your  luck." 

"  Six-four  !     Laura 's  mine.     Satisfied  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,  —  if  you  are.  If  not,  I  don't  mind  exchang- 
ing." 

"  O,  no.     I  'm  satisfied." 

Both  reclined  upon  the  deck  once  more,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief,  and  a  long  silence  followed. 

"  I  say,"  began  Charley,  after  a  time,  "  it  is  a  comfort  to 
have  these  little  matters  arranged  without  any  trouble,  eh  ?  " 


Why  Thomas  was  Discharged. 

«Y-e-s." 

"  Do  you  know,  I  think  I  '11  marry  mine  ?  " 

"  I  will,  if  you  will." 

"Done!  it  is  a  bargain." 

This  "  little  matter  "  being  arranged,  a  change  gradually 
took  place  in  the  relations  of  the  four.  Ned  Salisbury 
began  to  invite  Laura  Thurston  out  driving  and  in  bathing 
somewhat  oftener  than  before,  and  Hattie  Chapman  some- 
what less  often  ;  while  Charley  Burnham  followed  suit  with 
the  last-named  young  lady.  As  the  line  of  demarcation 
became  fixed,  the  damsels  recognized  it,  and  accepted  with 
gracious  readiness  the  cavaliers  that  Fate,  through  the 
agency  of  a  chance-falling  pair  of  dice,  had  allotted  to 
them. 

The  other  guests  of  the  house  remarked  the  new  position 
of  affairs,  and  passed  whispers  about,  to  the  effect  that 
the  girls  had  at  last  succeeded  in  getting  their  fish  on  hooks 
instead  of  in  a  net.  No  suitors  could  have  been  more 
devoted  than  our  friends.  It  seemed  as  if  each  now  be- 
stowed upon  the  chosen  one  all  the  attentions  he  had 
hitherto  given  to  both ;  and  whether  they  went  boating, 
sketching,  or  strolling  upon  the  sands,  they  were  the  very 
picture  of  a  partie  carrte  of  lovers. 

Naturally  enough,  as  the  young  men  became  more  in 
earnest,  with  the  reticence  common  to  my  sex,  they  spoke 
less  freely  and  frequently  on  the  subject.  Once,  however, 
after  an  unusually  pleasant  afternoon,  Salisbury  ventured  a 
few  words. 

"  I  say,  we  're  a  couple  of  lucky  dogs  !  Who  'd  have 
thought,  now,  aw,  that  our  summer  was  going  to  turn  out 
so  well  ?  I  'm  sure  I  did  n't.  How  do  you  get  along, 
Charley,  boy  ?  " 

"  Deliciously.  Smooth  sailing  enough  !  Was  n't  it  a 
good  idea,  though,  to  pair  off?  I'm  just  as  happy  as  a 
bee  in  clover.  You  seem  to  prosper,  too,  heh  ? " 

"  Could  n't  ask  anything  different.  Nothing  but  devo- 
tion, and  all  that.  I  'm  delighted.  I  say,  when  are  you 
going  to  pop?" 


Why  Thomas  was  Discharged.  175 

"  O,  I  don't  know.  It  is  only  a  matter  of  form.  Sooner 
the  better,  I  suppose,  and  have  it  over." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  next  week.  What  do  you  say  to  a 
quiet  picnic  down  on  the  rocks,  and  a  walk  afterward? 
We  can  separate,  you  know,  and  do  the  thing  up  systemati- 
cally." 

"  All  right.     I  will,  if  you  will." 

"  That 's  another  bargain.  I  notice  there  is  n't  much 
doubt  about  the  result,  though." 

"  Hardly  !  " 

A  close  observer  might  have  seen  that  the  gentlemen 
increased  their  attentions  a  little  from  that  time.  The  ob- 
jects of  their  devotion  perceived  it,  and  smiled  more  and 
more  graciously  upon  them. 

The  day  set  for  the  picnic  arrived  duly,  and  was  radiant. 
It  pains  me  to  confess  that  my  heroes  were  a  trifle  nervous. 
Their  apparel  was  more  gorgeous  and  wonderful  than  ever, 
and  Thomas,  who  was  anxious  to  be  off,  courting  Miss 
Chapman's  lady's-maid,  found  his  masters  dreadfully  exact- 
ing in  the  matter  of  hair-dressing.  At  length,  however, 
the  toilet  was  over,  and  "  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  "  would 
have  been  vastly  astonished  at  finding  himself  "  arrayed  as 
one  of  these." 

The  bqat  lay  at  the  pier,  receiving  large  quantities  of 
supplies  for  the  trip,  stowed  by  Thomas,  under  the  super- 
vision of  the  grim  and  tarry  skipper.  When  all  was  ready, 
the  young  men  gingerly  escorted  their  fair  companions 
aboard,  the  lines  were  cast  off,  and  the  boat  glided  gently 
down  the  bay,  leaving  Thomas  free  to  fly  to  the  smart 
presence  of  Susan  Jane,  and  to  draw  glowing  pictures  for 
her  of  a  neat  little  porter-house  in  the  city,  wherein  they 
should  hold  supreme  sway,  be  happy  with  each  other,  and 
let  rooms  up-stairs  for  single  gentlemen. 

The  brisk  land-breeze,  the  swelling  sail,  the  fluttering  of 
the  gay  little  flag  at  the  gaff,  the  musical  rippling  of  water 
under  the  counter,  and  the  spirited  motion  of  the  boat, 
combined  with  the  bland  air  and  pleasant  sunshine  to 


176  Why  Thomas  was  Discharged. 

inspire  the  party  with  much  vivacity.  They  had  not  been 
many  minutes  afloat  before  the  guitar-case  was  opened, 
and  the  girls'  voices  —  Laura's  soprano  and  Hattie's  con- 
tralto—  rang  melodiously  over  the  waves,  mingled  with 
feeble  attempts  at  bass  accompaniment  from  their  gorgeous 
guardians. 

Before  these  vocal  exercises  wearied,  the  skipper  hauled 
down  his  jib,  let  go  his  anchor,  and  brought  the  craft  to, 
just  off  the  rocks  ;  and  bringing  the  yawl  along-side,  un- 
ceremoniously plumped  the  girls  down  into  it,  without 
giving  their  cavaliers  a  chance  for  the  least  display  of  agile 
courtliness.  Rowing  ashore,  this  same  tarry  person  left 
them  huddled  upon  the  beach  with  their  hopes,  their  ham- 
pers, their  emotions,  and  their  baskets,  and  returned  to  the 
vessel  to  do  a  little  private  fishing  on  his  own  account  till 
wanted. 

The  maidens  gave  vent  to  their  high  spirits  by  chasing 
each  other  among  the  rocks,  gathering  shells  and  sea-weed 
for  the  construction  of  those  ephemeral  little  ornaments  — 
fair,  but  frail  —  in  which  the  sex  delights,  singing,  laughing, 
quoting  poetry,  attitudinizing  upon  the  peaks  and  ledges 
of  the  fine  old  bowlders,  —  mossy  and  weedy  and  green 
with  the  wash  of  a  thousand  storms,  worn  into  strange 
shapes,  and  stained  with  the  multitudinous  dyes  of  mineral 
oxidization,  —  and,  in  brief,  behaved  themselves  with  all 
the  charming  abandon  that  so  well  becomes  young  girls, 
set  free,  by  the  entourage  of  a  holiday  ramble,  from  the 
buckram  and  clear-starch  of  social  etiquette. 

Meanwhile  Ned  and  Charley  smoked  the  pensive  cigar 
of  preparation  in  a  sheltered  corner,  and  gazed  out  seaward, 
dreaming  and  seeing  nothing. 

Erelong  the  breeze  and  the  romp  gave  the  young  ladies 
not  only  a  splendid  color  and  sparkling  eyes,  but  excellent 
appetites  also.  The  baskets  and  hampers  were  speedily 
unpacked,  the  table-cloth  laid  on  a  broad,  flat  stone,  so  used 
by  generations  of  Brant-House  picnickers,  and  the  party 
fell  to.  Laura's  beautiful  hair,  a  little  disordered,  swept  her 


Why  Thomas  was  Discharged.  177 

blooming  cheek,  and  cast  a  pearly  shadow  upon  her  neck. 
Her  bright  eyes  glanced  archly  out  from  under  her  half- 
raised  veil,  and  there  was  something  inexpressibly  naive  in 
the  freedom  with  which  she  ate,  taking  a  bird's  wing  in  her 
little  fingers,  and  boldly  attacking  it  with  teeth  as  white 
and  even  as  can  be  imagined.  Notwithstanding  all  the 
mawkish  nonsense  that  has  been  put  forth  by  sentimental- 
ists concerning  feminine  eating,  I  hold  that  it  is  one  of  the 
nicest  things  in  the  world  to  see  a  pretty  woman  enjoying 
the  creature  comforts  ;  and  Byron  himself,  had  he  been 
one  of  this  picnic  party,  would  have  been  unable  to  resist 
the  admiration  that  filled  the  souls  of  Burnham  and  Salis- 
bury. Hattie  Chapman  stormed  a  fortress  of  boned  turkey 
with  a  gusto  equal  to  that  of  Laura,  and  made  highly  suc- 
cessful raids  upon  certain  outlying  salads  and  jellies.  The 
young  men  were  not  in  a  very  ravenous  condition;  they 
were,  as  I  have  said,  a  little  nervous,  and  bent  their  ener- 
gies principally  to  admiring  the  ladies  and  coquetting  with 
pickled  oysters. 

When  the  repast  was  over,  with  much  accompanying 
chat  and  laughter,  Ned  glanced  significantly  at  Charley, 
and  proposed  to  Laura  that  they  should  walk  up  the  beach 
to  a  place  where,  he  said,  there  were  "some  pretty  rocks 
and  things,  you  know."  She  consented,  and  they  marched 
off.  Hattie. also  arose,  and  took  her  parasol,  as  if  to  follow, 
but  Charley  remained  seated,  tracing  mysterious  diagrams 
upon  the  table-cloth  with  his  fork,  and  looking  sublimely 
unconscious. 

"  Sha'n't  we  walk,  too  ?"  Hattie  asked. 

"  O,  why,  the  fact  is,"  said  he,  hesitantly,  "  I  —  I  sprained 
my  ankle,  getting  out  of  that  confounded  boat ;  so  I  don't 
feel  much  like  exercise  just  now." 

The  young  girl's  face  expressed  concern. 

"  That  is  too  bad  !  Why  did  n't  you  tell  us  of  it  before  ? 
Is  it  painful  ?  I  'm  so  sorry  !  " 

"  N-no,  —  it  does  n't  hurt  much.  I  dare  say  it  will  be 
8*  L 


I /S  Why  Thomas  was  Discharged. 

all  right  in  a  minute.     And  then  —  I  'd  just  as  soon  stay 
here  —  with  you  —  as  to  walk  anywhere." 
«    This,  very  tenderly,  with  a  little  sigh. 

Hattie  sat  down  again,  and  began  to  talk  to  this  facti- 
tious cripple,  in  the  pleasant,  purring  way  some  damsels 
have,  about  the  joys  of  the  sea-shore,  —  the  happy  summer 
that  was,  alas  !  drawing  to  a  close,  —  her  own  enjoyment 
of  life,  —  and  kindred  topics,  —  till  Charley  saw  an  excel- 
lent opportunity  to  interrupt  with  some  aspirations  of  his 
own,  which,  he  averred,  must  be  realized  before  his  life 
could  be  considered  a  satisfactory  success. 

If  you  have  ever  been  placed  in  analogous  circumstances, 
you  know,  of  course,  just  about  the  sort  of  thing  that  was 
being  said  by  the  two  gentlemen  at  nearly  the  same  mo- 
ment :  Ned,  loitering  slowly  along  the  sands  with  Laura 
on  his  arm,  —  and  Charley,  stretched  in  indolent  pictu- 
resqueness  upon  the  rocks,  with  Hattie  sitting  beside  him. 
If  you  do  not  know  from  experience,  ask  any  candid  friend 
who  has  been  through  the  form  and  ceremony  of  an  ortho- 
dox proposal. 

When  the  pedestrians  returned,  the  two  couples  looked 
very  hard  at  each  other.  All  were  smiling  and  complacent, 
but  devoid  of  any  strange  or  unusual  expression.  Indeed, 
the  countenance  is  subject  to  such  severe  education  in 
good  society,  that  one  almost  always  looks  smiling  and 
complacent.  Demonstration  is  not  fashionable  ;  and  a  man 
must  preserve  the  same  demeanor  over  the  loss  of  a  wife 
or  a  glove-button,  over  the  gift  of  a  heart's  whole  devotion 
or  a  bundle  of  cigars.  Under  all  these  visitations,  the 
complacent  smile  is  in.  favor,  as  the  neatest,  most  service- 
able, and  convenient  form  of  non-committalism. 

The  sun  was  approaching  the  blue  range  of  misty  hills 
that  bounded  the  mainland  swamps  by  this  time ;  so  the 
skipper  was  signalled,  the  dinner  paraphernalia  gathered 
up,  and  the  party  were  soon  en  route  for  home  once  more. 
When  the  young  ladies  were  safely  in,  Ned  and  Charley 


Why  Thomas  was  Discharged.  179 

met  in  their  room,  and  each  caught  the  other  looking  at 
him  stealthily.  Both  smiled.' 

"  Did  I  give  you  time,  Charley  ? "  asked  Ned ;  "  we  came 
back  rather  soon." 

"  O,  yes,  —  plenty  of  time." 

"Did  you  —  aw,  did  you  pop?" 

"  Y-es.     Did  you  ? " 

"Well  — yes." 

"  And  you  were  —  " 

"  Rejected,  by  Jove  ! " 

"  So  was  I  !  " 

The  day  following  this  disastrous  picnic,  the  baggage  of 
Mr.  Edwin  Salisbury  and  Mr.  Charles  Burnham  was  sent 
to  the  depot  at  Wikahasset  Station,  and  they  presented 
themselves  at  the  hotel-office  with  a  request  for  their  bill. 
As  Jerry  Swayne  deposited  their  key  upon  its  hook,  he 
drew  forth  a  small  tri-cornered  billet  from  the  pigeon-hole 
beneath,  and  presented  it. 

"  Left  for  you,  this  morning,  gentlemen." 

It  was  directed  to  both,  and  Charley  read  it  over  Ned's 
shoulder.  It  ran  thus  :  — 

"  DEAR  BOYS,  —  The  next  time  you  divert  yourselves  by 
throwing  dice  for  two  young  ladies,  we  pray  you  not  to  do 
so  in  the  presence  of  a  valet  who  is  upon  terms  of  inti- 
macy with  the  maid  of  one  of  them. 

"  With  many  sincere  thanks  for  the  amusement  you  have 
given  us,  —  often  when  you  least  suspected  it,  —  we  bid 
you  a 'lasting  adieu,  and  remain,  with  the  best  wishes, 

HATTIE  CHAPMAN. 

"Brant  House,  Wedtiesday.  LAURA   THURSTON." 

"  It  is  all  the  fault  of  that,  aw,  that  confounded  Thomas  ! " 
said  Ned. 

So  Thomas  was  discharged. 


VICTOR   AND   JACQUELINE. 


ACQUELINE  GABRIE  and  Elsie  Mdril  could 
not  occupy  one  room,  and  remain,  either  of  them, 
indifferent  to  so  much  as  might  be  manifested  of 
the  other's  inmost  life.  They  could  not  emigrate  together, 
peasants  from  Domre"my,  —  Jacqueline  so  strong,  Elsie  so 
fair  ;  —  could  not  labor  in  the  same  harvest-fields,  children 
of  old  neighbors,  without  each  being  concerned  in  the  wel- 
fare and  affected  by  the  circumstances  of  the  other. 

It  was  near  ten  o'clock,  one  evening,  when  Elsie  Me*ril 
ran  up  the  common  stairway,  and  entered  the  room  in  the 
fourth  story  where  she  and  Jacqueline  lodged. 

Victor  Le  Roy,  student  from  Picardy,  occupied  the  room 
next  theirs,  and  was  startled  from  his  slumber  by  the  voices 
of  the  girls.  Elsie  was  fresh  from  the  theatre,  from  the 
first  play  she  had  ever  witnessed  ;  she  came  home  excited 
and  delighted,  ready  to  repeat  and  recite,  as  long  as  Jacque- 
line would  listen. 

And  here  was  Jacqueline. 

Early  in  the  evening  Elsie  had  sought  -her  friend  with  a 
good  deal  of  anxiety.  A  fellow-lodger  and  field-laborer 
had  invited  her  to  see  the  play,  —  and  Jacqueline  was  far 
down  the  street,  nursing  old  Antonine  Dupre.  To  seek 
her,  thus  occupied,  on  such  an  errand,  Elsie  had  the  good 
taste  and  the  selfishness  to  refrain  from  doing. 

Therefore,  after  a  little   deliberation,  she  had  gone  to 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  181 

the  theatre,  and  there  forgot  her  hard  day-labor  in  the 
wonders  of  the  stage,  —  forgot  Jacqueline,  and  Antonine, 
and  every  care  and  duty.  It  was  hard  for  her,  when  all 
was  ended,  to  come  back  to  compunction  and  explanation, 
yet  to  this  she  had  come  back. 

Neither  of  the  girls  was  thinking  of  the  student,  their 
neighbor  ;  but  he  was  not  only  wakened  by  their  voices, 
he  amused  himself  by  comparing  them  and  their  utterances 
with  his  preconceived  notions  of  the  girls.  They  might 
not  have  recognized  him  in  the  street,  though  they  had 
often  passed  him  on  the  stairs  ;  but  he  certainly  could  have 
distinguished  the  pretty  face  of  Elsie,  or  the  strange  face 
of  Jacqueline,  wherever  he  might  meet  them. 

Elsie  ran  on  with  her  story,  not  careful  to  inquire  into 
the  mood  of  Jacqueline,  —  suspicious  of  that  mood,  no 
doubt,  —  but  at  last,  made  breathless  by  her  haste  and 
agitation,  she  paused,  looked  anxiously  at  Jacqueline,  and 
finally  said,  — 

"  You  think  I  ought  not  to  have  gone  ?  " 

"  O,  no,  —  it  gave  you  pleasure." 

A  pause  followed.  It  was  broken  at  length  by  Elsie, 
exclaiming,  in  a  voice  changed  from  its  former  speaking,  — 

"  Jacqueline  Gabrie,  you  are  homesick  !  horribly  home- 
sick, Jacqueline  ! " 

"  You  do  not  ask  for  Antonine  :  yet  you  know  I  went  to 
spend  the  day  with  her,"  said  Jacqueline,  very  gravely. 

"  How  is  Antonine  Dupr&  ?  "  asked  Elsie. 

"  She  is  dead.  I  have  told  you  a  good  many  times  that 
she  must  die.  Now  she  is  dead." 

"  Dead  ?  "  repeated  Elsie. 

"  You  care  as  much  as  if  a  candle  had  gone  out,"  said 
Jacqueline. 

"  She  was  as  much  to  me  as  I  to  her,"  was  the  quick 
answer.  "  She  never  liked  me.  She  did  not  like  my 
mother  before  me.  When  you  told  her  my  name,  the  day 
we  saw  her  first,  I  knew  what  she  thought.  So  let  that  go. 
If  I  could  have  done  her  good,  though,  I  would,  Jacque- 
line." 


1 82  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

"  She  has  everything  she  needs,  —  a  great  deal  more  than 
we  have.  She  is  very  happy,  Elsie." 

"  Am  not  I  ?  Are  not  you,  in  spite  of  your  dreadful 
look  ?  Your  look  is  more  terrible  than  the  lady's  in  the 
play,  just  before  she  killed  herself.  Is  that  because  Anto- 
nine  is  so  well  off?" 

"  I  wish  that  I  could  be  where  she  is,"  sighed  Jacqueline. 

"  You  ?  You  are  tired,  Jacqueline.  You  look  ill.  You 
will  not  be  fit  for  to-morrow.  Come  to  bed.  It  is  late'." 

As  Jacqueline  made  no  reply  to  this  suggestion,  Elsie 
began  to  reflect  upon  her  words,  and  to  consider  wherefore 
and  to  whom  she  had  spoken.  Not  quite  satisfied  with 
herself  could  she  have  been,  for  at  length  she  said  in  quite 
another  manner,— 

"  You  always  said,  till  now,  you  wished  that  you  might 
live  a  hundred  years.  But  it  was  not  because  you  were 
afraid  to  die,  you  said  so,  Jacqueline." 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  the  answer,  —  sadly  spoken.  "  Don't 
remind  me  of  things  I  have  said.  I  seem  to  have  lost 
myself." 

The  voice  and  the  words  were  effectual,  if  they  were 
intended  as  an  appeal  to  Elsie.  Fain  would  she  now  ex- 
clude the  stage  and  •  the  play  from  her  thoughts,  —  fain 
think  and  feel  with  Jacqueline,  as  it  had  long  been  her 
habit  to  do. 

Jacqueline,  however,  was  not  eager  to  speak.  And  Elsie 
must  draw  yet  nearer  to  her,  and  make  her  nearness  felt, 
ere  she  could  hope  to  receive  the  thought  of  her  friend. 
By  and  by  these  words  were  uttered,  solemn,  slow,  and 
dirge-like  :  — 

"  Antonine  died  just  after  sundown.  I  was  alone  with 
her.  She  did  not  think  that  she  would  die  so  soon.  I  did 
not.  In  the  morning,  John  Leclerc  came  in  to  inquire  how 
she  spent  the  night.  He  prayed  with  her.  And  a  hymn,  — 
he  read  a  hymn  that  she  seemed  to  know,  for  all  day  she 
was  humming  it  over.  I  can  say  some  of  the  lines." 

"  Say  them,  Jacqueline,"  said  the  softened  voice  of  Elsie. 


Victor  arid  Jacqueline.  183 

Slowly,  and  as  one  recalls  that  of  which  he  is  uncertain, 
Jacqueline  repeated  what  I  copy  more  entire  :  — 

"  In  the  midst  of  life,  behold, 
Death  hath  girt  us  round  ! 
Whom  for  help,  then,  shall  we  pray  ? 
Where  shall  graoe  be  found  ? 

In  thee,  O  Lord,  alone  I 
We  rue  the  evil  we  have  done, 
That  thy  wrath  on  us  hath  drawn. 
Holy  Lord  and  God  ! 
Strong  and  holy  God  1 
Merciful  and  holy  Saviour  1 

Eternal  God  ! 
Sink  us  not  beneath 
Bitter  pains  of  endless  death  1 
Kyrie,  eleison  1 " 

"  Then  he  went  away,"  she  continued.  "  But  he  did  not 
think  it  was  the  last  time  he  should  speak  to  Antonine.  In 
the  afternoon  I  thought  I  saw  a  change,  and  I  wanted  to 
go  for  somebody.  But  she  said,  '  Stay  with  me.  I  want 
nothing.'  So  I  sat  by  her  bed.  At  last  she  said,  *  Come, 
Lord  Jesus  !  come  quickly  ! '  and  she  started  up  in  her  bed, 
as  if  she  saw  him  coming.  And  as  if  he  were  coming 
nearer,  she  smiled.  That  was  the  last,  —  without  a  strug- 
gle, or  as  much  as  a  groan." 

"No  priest  there?"  asked  Elsie.          ^ 

"  No.  When  I  spoke  to  her  about  it,  she  said  her  priest 
was  Jesus  Christ  the  Righteous,  —  and  there  was  no  other, 
—  the  High-Priest.  She  gave  me  her  Bible.  See  how  it 
has  been  used !  '  Search  the  Scriptures,'  she  said.  She 
told  me  I  was  able  to  learn  the  truth.  '  I  loved  your 
mother,'  she  said  ;  '  that  is  the  reason  I  am  so  anxious  you 
should  know.  It  is  by  my  spirit,  said  the  Lord.  Ask  for 
that  spirit,'  she  said.  'He  is  more  willing  to  give  than 
earthly  parents  are  to  give  good  gifts  to  their  children.' 
She  said  these  things,  Elsie.  If  they  are  true,  they  must 
be  better  worth  believing  than  all  the  riches  of  the  world 
are  worth  the  having." 

The  interest  manifested  by  the  student  in  this  conversa- 


184  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

tion  had  been  on  the  increase  since  Jacqueline  began  to 
speak  of  Antonine  Dupre.  It  was  not,  at  this  point  of  the 
conversation,  waning. 

"Your  mother  would  not  have  agreed  with  Antonine," 
said  Elsie,  as  if  there  were  weight  in  the  argument;  for 
such  a  girl  as  Jacqueline  could  not  speak  earnestly  in  the 
hearing  of  a  girl  like  Elsie  without  result,  and  the  result 
was  at  this  time  resistance. 

"  She  believed  what  she  was  taught  in  Domre'my,"  an- 
swered Jacqueline.  "  She  believed  in  Absolution,  Extreme 
Unction,  in  the  need  of  another  priest  than  Jesus  Christ,  — 
a  representative  they  call  it."  She  spoke  slowly,  as  if  inter- 
rogating each  point  of  her  speech. 

"  I  believe  as  they  believed  before  us,"  answered  Elsie, 
coldly. 

"  We  have  learned  many  things  since  we  came  to  Meaux," 
answered  Jacqueline,  with  a  patient  gentleness,  that  indi- 
cated the  perplexity  and  doubt  with  which  the  generous 
spirit  was  departing  from  the  old  dominion.  She  was 
indeed  departing,  with  that  reverence  for  the  past  which 
is  not  incompatible  with  the  highest  hope  for  the  future. 
"  Our  Joan  came  from  Domre'my,  where  she  must  crown 
the  king,"  she  continued.  "  We  have  much  to  learn." 

"  She  lost  her  life,"  said  Elsie,  with  vehemence. 

"  Yes,  she  did  lose  her  life,"  Jacquelin  quietly  acquiesced. 

"  If  she  had  known  what  must  happen,  would  she  have 
come  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  would  have  come." 

"  How  late  it  is  !  "  said  Elsie,  as  if  in  sleep  were  certain 
rest  from  these  vexatious  thoughts. 

Victor  Le  Roy  was  by  this  time  lost  in  his  own  reflec- 
tions. These  girls  had  supplied  an  all-sufficient  theme; 
whether  they  slept  or  wakened  was  no  affair  of  his>  He 
had  somewhat  to  argue  for  himself  about  extreme  unction, 
priestly  intervention,  confession,  absolution,  —  something  to 
say  to  himself  about  Leclerc,  and  the  departed  Antonine. 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  185 

Late  into  the  night  he  sat  thinking  of  the  marvel  of 
Domre'my  and  of  Antonine  Dupre,  of  Picardy  and  of 
Meaux,  of  priests  and  of  the  High-Priest.  Brave  and 
aspiring,  Victor  Le  Roy  could  not  think  of  these  things, 
involved  in  the  names  of  things  above  specified,  as  more 
calculating,  prudent  spirits  might  have  done.  It  was  his 
business,  as  a  student,  to  ascertain  what  powers  were  work- 
ing in  the  world.  All  true  characters,  of  past  time  or 
present,  must  be  weighed  and  measured  by  him.  Result 
was  what  he  aimed  at. 

Jacqueline's  words  had  not  given  him  new  thoughts,  but 
unawares  they  did  summon  him  to  his  appointed  labor. 
He  looked  to  find  the  truth.  He  must  stand  to  do  his 
work.  He  must  haste  to  make  his  choice.  Enthusiastic, 
chivalrous,  and  strong,  he  was  seeking  the  divine  Tight, 
night  and  day ;  and  to  ascertain  that,  as  it  seemed,  he 
had  come  from  Picardy  to  Meaux. 

Elsie  Me*ril  went  to  bed,  as  she  had  invited  Jacqueline 
to  do  ;  to  sleep,  to  dream,  she  went,  —  and  to  smile,  in  her 
dreaming,  on  the  world  that  smiled  on  her. 

Jacqueline  sat  by  the  window ;  leaned  from  the  window, 
and  prayed ;  her  own  prayer  she  prayed,  as  Antonine  had 
said  she  must,  if  she  would  discover  what  she  needed,  and 
obtain  an  answer. 

She  thought  of  the  dead,  —  her  own.  She  pondered  on 
the  future.  She  recalled  some  lines  of  the  hymn  Antonine 
had  repeated,  and  she  wished  —  oh,  how  she  wished !  — 
that,  while  the  woman  lived,  and  could  reason  and  speak, 
she  had  told  her  about  the  letter  she  had  received  from 
the  priest  of  Domre'my.  Many  a  time  it  had  been  on  her 
lips  to  tell,  but  she  failed  in  courage  to  bring  her  poor 
affairs  into  that  chamber  and  disturb  that  dying  hour. 
Now  she  wished  that  she  had  done  it.  Now  she  felt  that, 
speech  had  been  the  merest  act  of  justice  to  herself. 

But  there  was  Leclerc,  the  wool-comber,  and  his  mother ; 
she  might  rely  on  them  for  the  instruction  she  needed. 

Old  Antonine's  faith  had  made  a  deep  impression  on  the 


1 86  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

strong-hearted  and  deep-thinking  girl ;  as  also  had  the 
prayers  of  John  Leclerc,  —  especially  that  last  prayer  offered 
for  Antonine.  It  seemed  to  authenticate,  by  its  strong,  un- 
faltering utterance,  the  poor  old  woman's  evidence.  "Jesus 
Christ,  the  same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever,"  were  strong 
words  that  seemed  about  to  take  possession  of  the  heart  of 
Jacqueline. 

Therefore,  while  Elsie  slept,  she  prayed,  —  looking  far- 
ther than  the  city-streets  and  darkness,  —  looking  farther 
than  the  shining  stars.  What  she  sought,  poor  girl,  stood 
in  her  silent  chamber,  stood  in  her  waiting  heart.  But  she 
knew  Him  not,  and  her  ear  was  heavy ;  she  did  not  hear 
the  voice,  that  she  should  answer  Him,  "  Rabboni !  " 


II. 


A  FORTNIGHT  from  this  night,  after  the  harvesters 
had  left  the  fields  of  M.  Flaval,  Jacqueline  was  lin- 
gering in  the  twilight. 

The  instant  the  day's  work  was  done,  the  laborers  set 
out  for  Meaux.  Their  haste  suggested  some  unusual  cause, 

John  Leclerc,  wool-comber,  had  received  that  day  his 
sentence.  Report  of  the  sentence  had  spread  among  the 
reapers  in  the  field  and  all  along  the  vineyards  of  the  hill- 
sides. Not  a  little  stir  was  occasioned  by  this  sentence  : 
three  days  of  whipping  through  the  public  streets,  to  con- 
clude with  branding  on  .the  forehead.  For  this  Leclerc,  it 
seemed,  had  profanely  and  audaciously  declared  that  a 
man  might  in  his  own  behalf  deal  with  the  invisible  God, 
by  the  mediation  of  Christ,  the  sole  Mediator  beween  God 
and  man.  Viewed  in  the  light  of  his  offence,  his  punish- 
ment certainly  was  of  the  mildest.  Tidings  of  his  sentence 
were  received  with  various  emotion  ;  by  some  as  though 
they  were  maddened  with  new  wine  ;  others  wept  openly ; 
many  more  were  pained  at  heart ;  some  brutally  rejoiced  ; 
some  were  incredulous. 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  187 

But  now  they  were  all  on  their  way  to  Meaux  ;  the  fields 
were  quite  deserted.  Urged  by  one  desire,  to  ascertain  the 
facts  of  the  trial,  and  the  time  when  the  sentence  would  be 
executed,  the  laborers  were  returning  to  the  town. 

Without  demonstration  of  any  emotion,  Jacqueline  Ga- 
brie,  quiet,  silent,  walked  along  the  river-bank,  until  she 
came  to  the  clump  of  chestnut-trees,  whose  shadow  fell 
across  the  stream.  Many  a  time,  through  the  hot,  dreadful 
day,  her  eyes  turned  wistfully  to  this  place.  In  the  morn- 
ing Elsie  Me'ril  had  promised  Jacqueline  that  at  twilight 
they  would  read  together  here  the  leaves  the  poor  old 
mother  of  Leclerc  gave  Jacqueline  last  night :  when  they 
had  read  them,  they  would  walk  home  by  starlight  together. 
But  now  the  time  had  come,  and  Jacqueline  was  alone. 
Elsie  had  returned  to  town  with  other  young  harvesters. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Jacqueline,  when  Elsie  told  her  she 
must  go.  It  was  not,  indeed,  inexplicable  that  she  should 
prefer  the  many  voices  to  the  one,  —  excitement  and  com- 
pany, rather  than  quiet,  dangerous  thinking. 

But,  thus  left  alone,  the  face  of  Jacqueline  expressed 
both  sorrow  and  indignation.  She  would  exact  nothing 
of  Elsie  ;  but  latterly  how  often  had  she  expected  of  her 
companion  more  than  she  gave  or  could  give  ! 

Of  course  the  young  girl  was  equal  to  others  in  pity  and 
surprise ;  but  there  were  people  in  the  world  beside  the 
wool-comber  and  his  mother.  Nothing  of  vast  import  was 
suggested  by  his  sentence  to  her  mind.  She  did  not  see 
that  spiritual  freedom  was  threatened  with  destruction.  If 
she  heard  the  danger  questioned,  she  could  not  apprehend 
it.  Though  she  had  listened  to  the  preaching  of  Leclerc 
and  had  been  moved  by  it,  her  sense  of  truth  and  of  justice 
was  not  so  acute  as  to  lead  her  willingly  to  incur  a  risk  in 
the  maintaining  of  the  same. 

She  would  not  look  into  Antonine's  Bible,  which  Jacque- 
line had  read  so  much  during  the  last  fortnight.  She  was 
not  the  girl  to  torment  herself  about  her  soul,  when  the 


1 88  Victor  and  Jacqueline, 

Church  would  save  it  for  her  by  mere  compliance  with  a 
few  easy  regulations. 

More  and  more  was  Elsie  disappointing  Jacqueline.  Day 
by  day  these  girls  were  developing  in  ways  which  bade  fair 
to  separate  them  in  the  end.  When  now  they  had  most, 
need  of  each  other,  their  estrangement  was  becoming  more 
apparent  and  decided.  The  peasant-dress  of  Elsie  would 
not  content  her  always,  Jacqueline  said  sadly  to  herself. 

Jacqueline's  tracts,  indeed,  promised  poorly  as  entertain- 
ment for  an  hour  of  rest,  -rest  gained  by  hours  of  toil. 
The  confusion  of  tongues  and  the  excitement  of  the  city 
pleased  Elsie  better.  So  she  went  along  the  road  to  Meaux, 
and  was  not  talking,  neither  thinking,  all  the  way,  of  the 
wrongs  of  John  Leclerc,  and  the  sorrows  of  his  mother,  — 
neither  meditating  constantly,  and  with  deep-seated  pur- 
pose, "  I  will  not  let  thee  go,  except  thou  bless  me ! "  — 
neither  on  this  problem,  agitated  then  in  so  many  earnest 
minds,  "  What  shall  a  man  give  in  exchange  for  his  soul  ?  " 

Thus  Jacqueline  sat  alone  and  thought  that  she  would 
read  by  herself  the  tracts  Leclerc  had  found  it  good  to 
study.  But  unopened  she  held  the  little  printed  scroll, 
while  she  watched  the  home-returning  birds,  whose  nests 
were  in  the  mighty  branches  of  the  chestnut-trees. 

She  needed  the  repose  more  than  the  teaching  even  ; 
for  all  day  the  sun  had  fallen  heavily  on  the  harvesters,  — • 
and  toiling  with  a  troubled  heart,  under  a  burning  sun,  will 
leave  the  laborer  not  in  the  best  condition  for  such  work  as 
Jacqueline  believed  she  had  to  do. 

But  she  had  promised  the  old  woman  she  would  read 
these  tracts,  and  this  was  her  only  time,  for  they  must  be 
returned  that  night :  others  were  waiting  for  them  with  an 
eagerness  and  longing  of  which,  haply,  tract-dispensers  see 
little  now.  Still  she  delayed  in  opening  them.  The  news 
of  Leclerc's  sentence  had  filled  her  with  dismay. 

Did  she  dread  to  read  the  truth,  —  "  the  truth  of  Jesus 
Christ,"  as  his  mother  styled  it?  The  frightful  image  of 
the  bleeding,  lacerated  wool-comber  would  come  between 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  189 

her  and  the  book  in  which  that  faith  was  written,  for  main- 
taining which  this  man  must  suffer.  Strange  contrast 
between  the  heavy  gloom  and  terror  of  her  thoughts  and 
the  peaceful  "  river  flowing  on  "  !  How  tranquil  were  the 
fields  that  spread  beyond  her  sight !  But  there  is  no  rest 
or  joy  in  Nature  to  the  agitated  and  foreboding  spirit.  Must 
we  not  have  conquered  the  world,  if  we  serenely  enter  into 
Nature's  rest  ? 

Fain  would  Jacqueline  have  turned  her  face  and  steps  in 
another  direction  that  night  than  toward  the  road  that  led 
to  Meaux :  to  the  village  on  the  border  of  the  Vosges,  — 
to  the  ancient  Domre'my.  Once  her  home  was  there;  but 
Jacqueline  had  parsed  forth  from  the  old,  humble,  true  de- 
fences :  for  herself  must  live  and  die. 

Domre'my  had  a  home  for  her  no  more.  The  priest,  on 
whom  she  had  relied  when  all  failed  her,  was  still  there, 
it  is  true ;  and  once  she  had  thought,  that,  while  he  lived, 
she  was  not  fatherless,  not  homeless  :  but  his  authority  had 
ceased  to  be  paternal,  and  she  trusted  him  no  longer. 
1  She  had  two  graves  in  the  old  village,  and  among  the 
living  a  few  faces  she  never  could  forget.  But  on  this  earth 
she  had  no  home. 

Musing  on  these  dreary  facts,  and  on  the  bleeding, 
branded  image  of  Leclerc,  as  her  imagination  rendered  him 
back  to  his  friends,  his  fearful  trial  over,  a  vision  more 
familiar  to  her  childhood  than  her  youth  opened  to  Jacque- 
line. 

There  was  one  who  used  to  wander  through  the  woods 
that  bordered  the  mountains  in  whose  shadow  stood 
Domre'my,  —  one  whose  works  had  glorified  her  name  in 
the  England  and  the  France  that  made  a  martyr  of  her. 
Jeanne  d'Arc  had  ventured  all  things  for  the  truth's  sake  : 
was  she,  who  also  came  forth  from  that  village,  by  any 
power  commissioned  ? 

Jacqueline  laid  the  tracts  on  the  grass.  Over  them  she 
placed  a  stone.  She  bowed  her  head.  She  hid  her  face. 
She  saw  no  more  the  river,  trees,  or  home-returning  birds  ; 


Victor  and  Jacqtieline. 

heard  not  the  rush  of  water  or  of  wind,  — =  nor,  even  now, 
the  hurry  and  the  shout  that  possibly  to-morrow  would 
follow  the  poor  wool-comber  through  the  streets  of  Meaux, 
—  and  on  the  third  day  they  would  brand  him  ! 

She  remembered  an  old  cottage  in  the  shadow  of  the 
forest-covered  mountains.  She  remembered  one  who  died 
there  suddenly,  and  without  remedy, —her  father,  unab- 
solved  and  unanointed,  dying  in  fear  and  torment,  in  a 
moment  when  none  anticipated  death.  She  remembered 
a  strong-hearted  woman  who  seemed  to  die  with  him, — 
who  died  to  all  the  interests  of  this  life,  and  was  buried  by 
her  husband  ere  a  twelvemonth  had  passed,  —  her  mother, 
who  was  buried  by  her  father's  side. 

Burdened  with  a  solemn  care  they  left  their  child.  The 
priest  of  Domre'my,  and  none  beside  him,  knew  the  weight 
of  this  burden.  How  had  he  helped  her  bear  it  ?  since  it 
is  the  business  of  the  shepherd  to  look  after  the  younglings 
of  the  flock.  Her  hard  earnings  paid  him  for  the  prayers 
he  offered  for  the  deliverance  of  her  father  from  his  purga- 
torial woes.  Burdened  with  a  dire  debt  of  filial  love,  the 
priest  had  let  her  depart  from  Domre'my  ;  his  influence 
followed  her  as  an  oppression  and  a  care,  —  a  degradation 
also. 

Her  life  of  labor  was  a  slavish  life.  All  she  did,  and  all 
she  left  undone,  she  looked  at  with  sad-hearted  reference 
to  the  great  object  of  her  life.  Far  away  she  put  all  allure- 
ment to  tempting,  youthful  joy.  What  had  she  to  do  with 
merriment  and  jollity,  while  a  sin  remained  unexpiated,  or 
a.  moment  of  her  father's  suffering  and  sorrow  could  be 
anticipated  ? 

How,  probably,  would  these  new  doctrines,  held  fast  by 
some  through  persecution  and  danger,  these  doctrines 
which  brought  liberty  to  light,  be  received  by  one  so  fast 
a  prisoner  of  Hope  as  she  ?  She  had  pledged  herself,  with 
solemn  vows  had  promised,  to  complete  the  work  her  moth- 
er left  unfinished  when  she  died. 

.Some  of  the  laborers  in  the  field,  Elsie  among  them,  had 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  191 

hoped,  they  said,  that  the  wool-comber  would  retract  from 
his  dangerous  position.  Recalling  their  words,  Jacqueline 
asked  herself  would  she  choose  to  have  him  retract  ?  She 
reminded  herself  of  the  only  martyr  whose  memory  she 
loved,  the  glorious  girl  from  Domre'my ;  and  a  lofty  and 
stern  spirit  seemed  to  rouse  within  her  as  she  answered 
that  question.  She  believed  that  John  had  found  and 
taught  the  truth  ;  and  was  Truth  to  be  sacrificed  to  Power 
that  hated  it  ?  Not  by  a  suicidal  act,  at  least. 

She  took  the  tracts,  so  judging,  from  underneath  the 
stone,  wistfully  looked  them  over,  and,  as  she  did  so,  re- 
called these  words :  "  You  cannot  buy  your  pardon  of  a 
priest ;  he  has  no  power  to  sell  it ;  he  cannot  even  give  it. 
Ask  of  God,  who  giveth  to  all  men  liberally,  upbraiding 
not.  '  If  ye,  being  evil,  know  how  to  give  good  gifts  to 
your  children,  how  much  more  shall  your  Heavenly  Father 
give  his  Holy  Spirit  to  them  that  ask  him  ! ' " 

She  could  never  forget  these  words.  She  could  never 
forget  the  preacher's  look  when  he  used  them ;  nor  the 
solemnity  of  the  assenting  faith,  as  attested  by  the  counte- 
nances of  those  around  her  in  that  "  upper  room." 

But  her  father !  What  would  this  faith  do  for  the  de- 
parted ? 

Yet  again  she  dared  to  pray,  —  here  in  this  solitude,  to 
ask  for  that  Holy  Spirit,  the  Enlightener.  And  it  was  truly 
with  trembling,  in  the  face  of  all  presentiments  of  what 
the  gift  might  possibly,  must  certainly,  import  to  her.  But 
what  was  she,  that  she  could  withstand  God,  or  His  gift, 
for  any  fear  of  the  result  that  might  attend  the  giving  of 
the  gift? 

Divinely  she  seemed  to  be  inspired  with  that  courageous 
thought.  She  rose  up,  as  if  to  follow  the  laborers  who  had 
already  gone  to  Meaux.  But  she  had  not  passed  out  from 
the  shadow  of  the  great  trees  when  another  shadow  fell 
along  her  path. 


1 92  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 


III. 

IT  was  Victor  Le  Roy  who  was  so  close  at  hand.  He 
recognized  Jacqueline  ;  for,  as  he  came  down  the  road, 
now  and  then  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  red  peasant-dress. 
And  he  accepted  his  persuasion  as  it  had  been  an  assur- 
ance ;  for  he  believed  that  on  such  a  night  no  other  girl 
would  linger  alone  near  the  place  of  her  day's  labor.  More- 
over, while  passing  the  group  of  harvesters,  he  had  observed 
that  she  was  not  among  them. 

The  acquaintance  of  these  young  persons  was  but  slight ; 
yet  it  was  of  such  a  character  as  must  needs  increase. 
Within  the  last  fortnight  they  had  met  repeatedly  in  the 
room  of  Leclerc's  mother.  On  the  last  night  of  her  son's 
preaching  they  had  together  listened  to  his  words.  The 
young  student  with  manly  aspirations,  ambitious,  courage- 
ous, inquiring,  and  the  peasant  girl  who  toiled  in  fields  and 
vineyards,  were  on  the  same  day  hearkening  to  the  call, 
"  Ho,  >  every  one  that  thirsteth  ! "  with  the  consciousness 
that  the  call  was  meant  for  them! 

When  Victor  Le  Roy  saw  that  Jacqueline  perceived  and 
recognized  him,  he  also  observed  the  tracts  in  her  hand 
and  the  trouble  in  her  countenance,  and  he  wondered  in 
his  heart  whether  she  could  be  ignorant  of  what  had  passed 
that  day  at  Meaux,  and  if  it  could  be  possible  that  her 
manifest  disturbance  arose  from  any  perplexity  or  dis- 
quietude independent  of  the  sentence  that  had  been  passed 
on  John  Leclerc.  His  first  words  brought  an  answer  that 
satisfied  his  doubt. 

"  She  has  chosen  that  good  part  which  shall  not  be  taken 
from  her,"  said  he,  as  he  came  near.  "  The  country  is  so 
fair,  could  no  one  of  them  all  except  Jacqueline  see  that  ? 
Were  they  all  drawn  away  by  the  bloody  fascination  of 
Meaux?  even  Elsie?" 

"It  was  the  news  that  hurried  her  home  with  the  rest," 
answered  she,  almost  pleased  at  this  disturbance  of  the 
solitude. 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  193 

"Did  that  keep  you  here,  Jacqueline  ?"  he  asked.  "It 
sent  me  out  of  the  city.  The  dust  choked  me.  Every 
face  looked  like  a  devil's.  To-morrow  night,  to-morrow 
night,  the  harvesters  will  hurry  all  the  faster.  Terrible 
curiosity !  And  if  they  find  traces  of  his  blood  along  the 
streets,  there  will  be  enough  to  talk  about  through  the  rest 
of  the  harvesting.  Jacqueline,  if  the  river  could  be  poured 
through  those  streets,  the  sacred  blood  could  never  be 
washed  out.  'T  is  not  the  indignity,  nor  the  cruelty,  I  think 
of  most,  but  the  barbarous,  wild  sin.  Shall  a  man's  truest 
liberty  be  taken  from  him,  as  though,  indeed,  he  were  not 
a  man  of  God,  but  the  spiritual  subject  of  his  fellows  ?  If 
that  is  their  plan,  they  may  light  the  fires,  —  there  are 
many  who  will  not  shrink  from  sealing  their  faith  with  their 
blood." 

These  words,  spoken  with  vehemence,  were  the  first  free 
utterance  Victor  Le  Roy  had  given  to  his  feelings  all  day. 
All  day  they  had  been  concentrating,  and  now  came  from 
him  fiery  and  fast. 

It  was  time  for  him  to  know  in  whom  and  in  what  he 
believed. 

Greatly  moved  by  his  words,  Jacqueline  said,  giving  him 
the  tracts,— 

"  I  came  from  Domrdmy.  I  am  free.  No  one  can  be 
hurt  by  what  befalls  me.  I  want  to  know  the  truth.  I  am 
not  afraid.  Did  John  Leclerc  never  give  way  for  a  mo- 
ment ?  Is  he  really  to  be  whipped  through  the  streets, 
and  on  the  third  day  to  be  branded?  Will  he  not  re- 
tract?" 

"  Never  !  "  was  the  answer,  —  spoken  not  without  a  shud- 
der. "  He  did  not  flinch  through  all  the  trial,  Jacqueline. 
And  his  old  mother  says,  *  Blessed  be  Jesus  Christ  and  his 
witnesses ! ' " 

"  I  came  from  Domrdmy,"  seemed  to  be  in  the  girl's 
thought  again ;  for  her  eyes  flashed  when  she  looked  at 
Victor  Le  Roy,  as  though  she  could  believe  the  heavens 
would  open  for  the  enlightening  of  such  believers. 
9  M 


194  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

"  She  gave  me  those  to  read,"  said  she,  pointing  to  the 
tracts  she  had  given  him. 

"  And  have  you  been  reading  them  here  by  yourself  ?  " 

"No.  Elsie  and  I  were  to  have  read  them  together; 
but  I  fell  to  thinking." 

"  You  mean  to  wait  for  her,  then  ?  " 

"  I  was  afraid  I  should  not  make  the  right  sense  .  of 
them." 

"  Sit  down,  Jacqueline,  and  let  me  read  aloud.  I  have 
read  them  before.  And  I  understand  them  better  than 
Elsie  does,  or  ever  will." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  is  true,  sir.     If  you  read,  I  will  listen." 

But  he  did  not,  with  this  permission,  begin  instantly. 

"You  came  from  Domre'my,  Jacqueline,"  said  he.  "  I 
came  from  Picardy.  My  home  was  within  a  stone's  throw 
of  the  castle  where  Jeanne  d'Arc  was  a  prisoner  before 
they  carried  her  to  Rouen.  I  have  often  walked  about  that 
castle  and  tried  to  think  how  it  must  have  been  with  her 
when  they  left  her  there  a  prisoner.  God  knows,  perhaps 
we  shall  all  have  an  opportunity  of  knowing,  how  she  felt 
when  a  prisoner  of  Truth.  Like  a  fly  in  a  spider's  net  she 
was,  poor  girl !  Only  nineteen  !  She  had  lived  a  life  that 
was  worth  the  living,  Jacqueline.  She  knew  she  was  about 
to  meet  the  fate  her  heart  must  have  foretold.  Girls  do  not 
run  such  a  course  and  then  die  quietly  in  their  beds.  They 
are  attended  to  their  rest  by  grim  sentinels,  and  they  light 
fagots  for  them.  I  have  read  the  story  many  a  time,  when 
I  could  look  at  the  window  of  the  very  room  where  she 
was  a  prisoner.  It  was  strange  to  think  of  her  witnessing 
the  crowning  of  the  King,  with  the  conviction  that  her 
work  ended  there  and  then,  —  of  the  women  who  brought 
their  children  to  touch  her  garments  or  her  hands,  to  let 
her  smile  on  them,  or  speak  to  them,  or  maybe  kiss  them. 
And  the  soldiers  deemed  their  swords  were  stronger  when 
they  had  but  touched  hers.  And  they  knelt  down  to  kiss 
her  standard,  that  white  standard,  so  often  victorious  !  I 
have  read  many  3  time  of  that  glorious  day  at  Rheims." 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  195 

"  And  she  said,  that  day,  '  O,  why  can  I  not  die  here  ? ' " 
said  Jacqueline,  with  a  low  voice. 

"And  when  the  Archbishop  asked  her,"  continued  Victor, 
" '  Where  do  you,  then,  expect  to  die  ? '  she  answered,  '  I 
know  not.  I  shall  die  where  God  pleases.  I  have  done 
what  the  Lord  my  God  commanded  me ;  and  I  wish  that 
He  would  now  send  me  to  keep  my  sheep  with  my  mother 
and  sister.'" 

"  Because  she  loved  Domre'my,  and  her  work  was  done," 
said  Jacqueline,  sadly.  "  And  so  many  hated  her !  But 
her  mother  would  be  sure  to  love.  Jeanne  would  never  see 
an  evil  eye  in  Domre'my,  and  no  one  would  lie  in  wait  to 
kill  her  in  the  Vosges  woods." 

"It  was  such  as  you,  Jacqueline,  who  believed  in  her, 
and  comforted  her.  And  to  every  one  that  consoled  her 
Christ  will  surely  say,  *  Ye  blessed  of  my  Father,  ye  did  it 
unto  me  ! '  Yes,  to  be  sure,  there  were  too  many  who  stood 
ready  to  kill  her  in  all  France,  —  besides  those  who  were 
afraid  of  her,  and  fought  against  our  armies.  Even  when 
they  were  taking  her  to  see  the  Dauphin,  the  guard  would 
have  drowned  her,  and  lied  about  it,  but  they  were  re- 
strained. It  is  something  to  have  been  born  in  Domre'my, 
—  to  have  grown  up  in  the  very  place  where  she  used  to 
play,  a  happy  little  girl.  You  have  seen  that  fountain,  and 
heard  the  bells  she  loved  so  much.  It  was  good  for  you,  I 
know." 

"  Her  prayers  were  everywhere,"  Jacqueline  replied. 
"  Everywhere  she  heard  the  voices  that  called  her  to  come 
and  deliver  France.  But  her  father  did  not  believe  in  her. 
He  persecuted  Jeanne." 

"A  man's  foes  are  of  his  own  household,"  said  Victor. 
"You  see  the  same  thing  now.  It  is  the  very  family  of 
Christ  —  yes  !  so  they  dare  call  it  —  who  are  going  to  tear 
and  rend  Leclerc  to-morrow  for  believing  the  words  of 
Christ.  A  hundred  judges  settled  that  Jeanne  should  be 
burned  ;  and  for  believing  such  words  as  are  in  these 
books  —  " 


196  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

"  Read  me  those  words,"  said  Jacqueline. 

So  they  turned  from  speaking  of  Joan  and  her  work,  to 
contemplate  another  style  of  heroism,  and  to  question  their 
own  hearts. 

Jacqueline  Gabrie  had  lived  through  eighteen  years  of  . 
hardship  and  exposure.  She  was  strong,  contented,  reso- 
lute. Left v to  herself,  she  would  probably  have  suffered  no 
disturbance  of  her  creed,  —  would  have  lived  and  died 
conforming  to  the  letter  of  its  law.  But  thrown  under  the 
influence  of  those  who  did  agitate  the  subject,  she  was 
brave  and  clear-headed.  She  listened  now,  while,  accord- 
ing to  her  wish,  her  neighbor  read,  —  listened  with  clear 
intelligence,  intent  on  the  truth.  That,  or  any  truth,  ac- 
cepted, she  would  hardly  shrink  from  whatever  it  involved. 
This  was  the  reason  why  she  had  re'ally  feared  to  ask  the 
Holy  Ghost's  enlightenment !  So  well  she  understood  her- 
self !  Truth  was  truth,  and,  if  received,  to  be  abided  by. 
She  could  not  hold  it  loosely.  She  could  not  trifle  with  it. 
She  was  born  in  Domre'my.  She  had  played  under  the 
Fairy  Oak.  She  knew  the  woods  where  Joan  wandered 
when  she  sought  her  saintly  solitude.  The  fact  was  acting 
on  her  as  an  inspiration,  when  Domre'my  became  a  memory, 
when  she  labored  far  away  from  the  wooded  Vosges  and 
the  meadows  of  Lorraine. 

She  listened  to  the  reading,  as  girls  do  not  always  listen 
when  they  sit  in  the  presence  of  a  reader  such  as  young 
Le  Roy. 

And  let  it  here  be  understood  —  that  the  conclusion 
bring  no  sorrow,  and  no  sense  of  wrong  to  those  who  turn 
these  pages,  thinking  to  find  the  climax  dear  to  half- 
fledged  imagination,  incapable  from  inexperience  of  any 
deeper  truth,  (I  render  them  all  homage !)  —  this  story  is 
not  told  for  any  sake  but  truth's. 

This  Jacqueline  did  listen  to  this  Victor,  thinking  actually 
of  the  words  he  read.  She  looked  at  him  really  to  ascer- 
tain whether  her  apprehension  of  these  things  was  all  the 
same  as  his.  She  questioned  him,  with  the  simple  desire 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  197 

to  learn  what  he  could  tell  her.  Her  hands  were  very  hard, 
so  constant  had  been  her  dealing  with  the  rough  facts  of 
this  life  ;  but  the  hard  hand  was  firm  in  its  clasp,  and  ready 
with  its  helpfulness.  Her  eyes  were  open,  and  very  clear 
of  dreams.  There  was  room  in  them  for  tenderness  as 
well  as  truth.  Her  voice  was  not  the  sweetest  of  all  voices 
in  this  world ;  but  it  had  the  quality  that  would  make  it 
prized  by  others  when  heart  and  flesh  were  failing ;  for  it 
would  be  strong  to  speak  then  with  cheerful  faith  and  an 
unfaltering  courage. 

Jacqueline  sat  there  under  the  chestnut-trees,  upon  the 
river-bank,  strong-hearted,  high-hearted,  a  brave,  generous 
woman.  What  if  her  days  were  toilsome  ?  What  if  her 
peasant-dress  was  not  the  finest  woven  in  the  looms  of 
Paris  or  of  Meaux  ?  Her  prayers  were  brief,  her  toil  was 
long,  her  sleep  was  sound,  —  her  virtue  firm  as  the  ever- 
lasting mountains.  Jacqueline,  I  have  singled  you  from 
among  hordes  and  tribes  and  legions  upon  legions  of 
women,  one  among  ten  thousand,  altogether  lovely,  —  not 
for  dalliance,  not  for  idleness,  not  for  dancing,  which  is 
well ;  not  for  song,  which  is  better ;  not  for  beauty,  which, 
perhaps,  is  best ;  not  for  grace,  or  power,  or  passion.  There 
is  an  attribute  of  God  which  is  more  to  His  universe  than 
all  evidence  of  power.  It  is  His  truth.  Jacqueline,  it  is 
for  this  your  name  shall  shine  upon  my  page. 

And,  manifestly,  it  is  by  virtue  of  this  quality  that  her 
reader  is  moved  and  attracted  at  this  hour  of  twilight  on 
the  river-bank. 

Her  intelligence  is  so  quick  !  her  apprehension  so  direct ! 
her  conclusions  so  true !  He  intended  to  aid  her ;  but 
Mazurier  himself  had  never  uttered  comments  so  entirely 
to  the  purpose  as  did  this  young  girl,  speaking  from  heart 
and  brain.  Better  fortune,  apparently,  could  not  have  be- 
fallen him  than  was  his  in  this  reading  ;  for  with  every  sen- 
tence almost  came  her  comment,  clear,  earnest,  to  the  point. 

He  had  need  of  such  a  friend  as  Jacqueline  seemed  able 
to  prove  herself.  His  nearest  living  relative  was  an  uncle, 


198  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

who  had  sent  the  ambitious  and  capable  young  student  to 
Meaux ;  for  he  gave  great  promise,  and  was  worth  an  ex- 
periment, the  old  man  thought,  —  and  was  strong  to  be 
thrown  out  into  the  world,  where  he  might  ascertain  the 
power  of  self-reliance.  He  had  need  of  friends,  and,  of  all 
friends,  one  like  Jacqueline. 

From  the  silence  and  retirement  of  his  home  in  Picardy 
he  had  come  to  Meaux,  —  the  town  that  was  so  astir,  busy, 
thoroughly  alive  !  Inexperienced  in  worldly  ways  he  came. 
His  face  was  beautiful  with  its  refinement  and  power  of 
expression.  His  eyes  were  full  of  eloquence ;  so  also  was 
his  voice.  When  he  came  from  Picardy  to  Meaux,  his  old 
neighbors  prophesied  for  him.  He  knew  their  prophecies, 
and  purposed  to  fulfil  them.  He  ceased  from  dreaming, 
when  he  came  to  Meaux.  He  was  not  dreaming,  when  he 
looked  on  Jacqueline.  He  was  aware  of  what  he  read,  and 
how  she  listened,  under  those  chestnut-trees. 

The  burden  of  the  tracts  he  read  to  Jacqueline  was  sal- 
vation by  faith,  not  of  works,  —  an  iconoclastic  doctrine, 
that  was  to  sweep  away  the  great  mass  of  Romish  super- 
stition, invalidating  Papal  power.  Image-worship,  shrine- 
frequenting  sacrifices,  indulgences,  were  esteemed  and 
proved  less  than  nothing  worth  in  the  work  of  salvation. 

"  Did  you  understand  John,  when  he  said  that  the  priests 
deceived  us  and  were  full  of  robberies,  and  talked  about 
the  masses  for  the  dead,  and  said  the  only  good  of  them 
was  to  put  money  into  the  Church  ?  "  asked  Jacqueline. 

"  I  believe  it,"  he  replied,  with  spirit. 

"  That  the  masses  are  worth  nothing  ?  "  she  asked,  —  far 
from  concealing  that  the  thought  disturbed  her. 

"  What  can  they  be  worth,  if  a  man  has  lived  a  bad  life  ?  " 

"  That  my  father  did  not !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  If  a  man  is  a  bad  man,  why,  then  he  is.  He  has  gone 
where  he  must  be  judged.  The  Scripture  says,  As  a  tree 
falls,  it  must  lie." 

"  My  father  was  a  good  man,  Victor.  But  he  died  of  a 
sudden,  and  there  was  no  time." 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  199 

"No  time  for  what,  Jacqueline?  No  time  for  him  to 
turn  about,  and  be  a  bad  man  in  the  end  ?  " 

"  No  time  for  confession  and  absolution.  He  died  pray- 
ing God  to  forgive  him  all  his  sins.  I  heard  him.  I  won- 
dered, Victor,  for  I  never  thought  of  his  committing  sins. 
And  my  mother  mourned  for  him  as  a  good  wife  should 
not  mourn  for  a  bad  husband." 

"  Then  what  is  your  trouble,  Jacqueline  ? " 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  came  here  to  Meaux  ?  I  came  to 
get  money,  —  to  earn  it.  I  should  be  paid  more  money 
here  than  I  got  for  any  work  nt  home,  they  said :  that  was 
the  reason.  When  I  had  earned  so  much,  —  it  was  a  large 
sum,  but  I  knew  I  should  get  it,  and  the  priest  encouraged 
me  to  think  I  should,  —  he  said  that  my  heart's  desire 
would  be  accomplished.  And  I  could  earn  the  money 
before  winter  is  over,  I  think.  But  now  if  —  " 

"  Throw  it  into  the  Seine,  when  you  get  it,  rather  than 
pay  it  to  the  liar  for  selling  your  father  out  of  a  place  he 
was  never  in  !  He  is  safe,  believe  me,  if  he  was  the  good 
man  you  say.  Do  not  disturb  yourself.  Jacqueline." 

"He  never  harmed  a  soul.  And  we  loved  him  that  way 
a  bad  man  could  not  be  loved." 

As  Jacqueline  said  this,  a  smile  more  sad  than  joyful 
passed  over  her  face,  and  disappeared. 

"  He  rests  in  peace/'  said  Victor  Le  Roy. 

"  It  is  what  I  must  believe.  But  what  if  there  should  be 
a  mistake  about  it  ?  It  was  all  I  was  working  for." 

"  Think  for  yourself,  Jacqueline.  No  matter  what  Leclerc 
thinks  or  I  think.  Can  you  suppose  that  Jesus  Christ  re- 
quires any  such  thing  as  this  of  you,  that  you  should  make 
a  slave  of  yourself  for  the  expiation  of  your  father?  It  is 
a  monstrous  thought.  Doubt  not  it  was  love  that  took 
him  away  so  quickly.  And  love  can  care  for  him.  Long 
before  this,  doubtless,-  he  has  heard  the  words,  *  Come,  ye 
blessed  of  my  father ! '  And  what  is  required  of  you,  do 
you  ask  ?  You  shall  be  merciful  to  them  that  live ;  and 
trust  Him  that  He  will  care  for  those  who  have  gone  be- 


2OO  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

yond  your  reach.  Is  it  so?  Do  I  understand  you  ?  You 
have  been  thinking  to  buy  this  good  gift  of  God,  eternal 
life  for  your  father,  when  of  course  you  could  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  You  have  been  imposed  upon,  and  robbed 
all  this  while,  and  this  is  the  amount  of  it." 

"Well,  do  not  speak  so.  If  what  you  say  is  true,  —  and 
I  think  it  may  be,  —  what  is  past  is  past." 

"  But  won't  you  see  what  an  infernal  lie  has  been  prac- 
tised on  you,  and  all  the  rest  of  us  who  had  any  conscience 
or  heart  in  us,  all  this  while  ?  There  is  no  purgatory  ;  and 
it  is  nonsense  to  think,  that,  if  there  were,  money  could 
buy  a  man  out  of  it.  Jesus  Christ  is  the  one  sole  atone- 
ment for  sin.  And  by  faith  in  Him  shall  a  man  save  his 
soul  alive.  That  is  the  only  way.  If  I  lose  my  soul,  and 
am  gone,  the  rest  is  between  me  and  God.  Do  you  see  it 
should  be  so,  and  must  be  so,  Jacqueline  ?  " 

"  He  was  a  good  man,"  said  Jacqueline. 

She  did  not  find  it  quite  easy  to  make  nothing  of  all  this 
matter,  which  had  been  the  main-spring  of  her  effort  since 
her  father  died.  She  could  not  in  one  instant  drop  from 
her  calculations  that  on  which  she  had  heretofore  based  all 
her  activity.  She  had  labored  so  long,  so  hard,  to  buy  the 
rest  and  peace  and  heavenly  blessedness  of  the  father  she 
loved,  it  was  hardly  to  be  expected  that  at  once  she  would 
choose  to  see  that  in  that  rest  and  peace  and  blessedness, 
she,  as  a  producing  power,  had  no  part  whatever. 

As  she  more  than  hinted,  the  purpose  of  her  life  seemed 
to  be  taken  from  her.  She  could  not  perceive  that  fact 
without  some  consternation ;  could  not  instantly  connect 
it  with  another,  which  should  enable  her  to  look  around 
her  with  the  deliberation  of  a  liberated  spirit,  choosing  her 
new  work.  And  in  this  she  was  acted  upon  by  more  than 
the  fear  arising  from  the  influences  of  her  old  belief.  Of 
course  she  should  have  been,  and  yet  she  was  not,  able  to 
drop  instantly  and  forever  from  recollection  the  constant 
sacrifices  she  had  made,  the  deprivation  she  had  endured, 
with  heroic  persistence,  —  the  putting  far  away  every  per- 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  201 

sonal  indulgence  whose  price  had  a  market  value.  Her 
father  was  not  the  only  person  concerned  in  this  work  ;  the 
priest ;  herself.  She  had  believed  in  the  pastor  of  Dom- 
re'my.  Yet  he  had  deceived  her.  Else  he  was  self-deceived ; 
and  what  if  the  blind  should  strive  to  lead  the  blind  ? 
Could  she  accept  the  new  faith,  the  great  freedom,  with 
perfect  rejoicing  ? 

Victor  Le  Roy  seemed  to  have  some  suspicion  of  what 
was  passing  in  her  thoughts.  He  did  not  need  to  watch 
her  changeful  face  in  order  to  understand  them. 

"  I  advise  you  to  still  think  of  this,"  said  he.  "  Recall 
your  father's  life,  and  then  ask  yourself  if  it  is  likely  that 
He  who  is  Love  requires  the  sacrifice  of  your  youth  and 
your  strength  before  your  father  shall  receive  from  Him 
what  He  has  promised  to  give  to  all  who  trust  in  Him. 
Take  God  at  his  word,  and  you  will  be  obliged  to  give  up 
all  this  priest-trash." 


IV. 

VICTOR  LE  ROY  spoke  these  words  quietly,  as  if 
aware  that  he  might  safely  leave  them,  as  well  as 
any  other  true  words,  to  the  just  sense  of  Jacqueline. 

She  was  none  the  happier  for  them  when  she  returned 
that  night  to  the  little  city  room,  the  poor  lodging  whose 
high  window  overlooked  both  town  and  country,  city  streets 
and  harvest-fields,  and  the  river  flowing  on  beyond  the 
borders  of  the  town,  —  no  happier  through  many  a  moment 
of  thinking,  until,  as  it  were  by  an  instant  illumination,  she 
began  to  see  the  truth  of  the  matter,  as  some  might  wonder 
she  did  not  instantly  perceive  it,  if  they  could  omit  from 
observation  this  leading  fact,  that  the  orphan  girl  was 
Jacqueline  Gabrie,  child  of  the  Church,  and  not  a. wise  and 
generous  person,  who  had  never  been  in  bondage  to  super- 
stitions. 

.  For  a  long  time  after  her  return  to  her  lodging  she  was 
alone.     Elsie  was  in  the  street  with  the  rest  of  the  town> 
9* 


2O2  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

talking,  as  all  were  talking,  of  the  sight  that  Meaux  should 
see  to-morrow. 

Besides  Jacqueline,  there  was  hardly  another  person  in 
this  great  building,  six  stories  high,  every  room  of  which 
had  usually  a  tenant  at  this  hour.  She  sat  by  her  window, 
and  looked  at  the  dusky  town,  over  which  the  moon  was 
rising.  But  her  thoughts  were  far  away ;  over  many  a 
league  they  wandered. 

Once  more  she  stood  on  the  play-ground  of  her  toilsome 
childhood.  She  recalled  many  a  year  of  sacrificing  drudg- 
ery, which  now  she  could  not  name  such,  —  for  another 
reason  than  that  which  had  heretofore  prevented  her  from 
calling  it  a  sacrifice.  She  remembered  these  years  of 
wrong  and  of  extortion,  —  they  received  their  proper  name 
now,  —  years  whose  mirth  and  leisure  she  had  quietly  fore- 
gone, but  during  which  she  had  borne  a  burden  that  sad- 
dened youth,  while  it  also  dignified  it,  —  a  burden  which 
had  made  her  heart's  natural  cheerfulness  the  subject  of 
self-reproach,  and  her  maiden  dreams  and  wishes  matter 
for  tears,  for  shame,  for  confession,  for  prayer. 

Now  Victor  Le  Roy's  words  came  to  her  very  strangely ; 
powerfully  they  moved  her.  She  believed  them  in  this 
solitude,  where  at  leisure  she  could  meditate  upon  them. 
A  vision  more  fair  and  blessed  than  she  had  ever  imagined 
rose  before  her.  .  There  was  no  suffering  in  it,  and  no  sor- 
row ;  it  was  full  of  peace.  Already,  in  the  heaven  to  which 
she  had  hoped  her  toil  would  give  him  at  length  admission, 
her  father  had  found  his  home.  There  was  a  glory  in  his 
rest  not  reflected  from  her  filial  love,  but  from  the  all-avail- 
ing love  of  Christ. 

Then  —  delay  the  rigor  of  your  judgment !  —  she  began, 
—  yes,  she,  this  Jacqueline,  began  to  count  the  cost  of  what 
she  had  done.  She  was  not  a  sordid  soul,  she  had  not  a 
miserly  nature.  Before  she  had  gone  far  in  that  strange 
computation,  she  paused  abruptly,  with  a  crimsoned  face, 
and  not  with  tearless  eyes.  Counting  the  cost !  Estimat- 
ing the  sacrifice  !  Had,  then,  her  purpose  been  less  holy 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  203 

because  excited  by  falsehood  and  sustained  through  delu- 
sion ?  Was  she  less  loving  and  less  true,  because  deceived  ? 
And  was  she  to  lament  that  Christ,  the  one  and  only  Priest, 
rather  than  another  instrumentality,  was  the  deliverer  of 
her  beloved  from  the  power  of  death  ? 

No  ritual  was  remembered,  and  no  formula  consulted, 
when  she  cried  out,  —  "  It  is  so  !  and  I  thank  Th'ee  !  Only 
give  me  now,  my  Jesus,  a  purpose  as  holy  as  that  Thou 
hast  taken  away  !  " 

But  she  had  not  come  into  her  chamber  to  spend  a 
solitary  evening  there.  Turning  away  from  the  window, 
she  bestowed  a  little  care  upon  her  person,  smoothed  away 
the  traces  of  her  day's  labor,  and  after  all  was  done  she 
lingered  yet  longer.  She  was  going  out,  evidently.  Whith- 
er ?  To  visit  the  mother  of  John  Leclerc.  She  must  carry 
back  the  tracts  the  good  woman  had  lent  her.  Their  con- 
tents had  firm  lodgment  in  her  memory. 

Others  might  run  to  and  fro  in  the  streets,  and  talk  about 
the  corners,  and  prognosticate  with  passion,  and  defy,  in 
the  way  of  cowardice,  where  safety  rather  than  the  truth  is 
well  assured.  If  one  woman  could  console  another,  Jacque- 
line wished  that  she  might  console  Leclerc's  mother.  And 
if  any  words  of  wisdom  could  drop  from  the  poor  old 
woman's  lips  while  her  soul  was  in  this  strait,  Jacqueline 
desired  to  hear  those  words. 

Down  the  many  flights  of  stairs  she  went  across  the  court, 
and  then  along  the  street,  to  the  house  where  the  wool- 
comber  lived. 

A  brief  pause  followed  her  knock  for  admittance.  She 
repeated  it.  Then  was  heard  a  sound  from  within,  —  a 
step  crossing  the  floor.  The  door  opened,  and  there  stood 
the  mother  of  Leclerc,  ready  to  face  any  danger,  the  very 
Fiend  himself. 

But  when  she  saw  that  it  was  Jacqueline,  only  Jacqueline, 
—  an  angel,  as  one  might  say,  and  not  a  devil,  —  the  terri- 
ble look  passed  from  her  face  ;  she  opened  the  door  wide. 

"  Come  in,  child  !  come  in  !  " 


2O4  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

So  Jacqueline  went  into  the  room  where  John  had  worked 
and  thought,  reasoned,  argued,  prayed. 

This  is  the  home  of  the  man  because  of  whom  many 
are  this  night  offended  in  the  city  of  Meaux.  This  is  the 
place  whence  issued  the  power  that  has  set  the  tongues  to 
talking,  and  the  minds  to  thinking,  and  the  hearts  to  hop- 
ing, and  the  authorities  to  avenging. 

A  grain  of  mustard-seed  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven  in  a 
figure ;  the  wandering  winds  a  symbol  of  the  Pentecostal 
power :  a  dove  did  signify  the  descent  of  God  to  man. 
This  poor  chamber,  so  pent  in,  and  so  lowly,  so  obscure, 
has  its  significance.  Here  has  a  life  been  lived ;  and  not 
the  least  does  it  import,  that  walls  are  rough  and  the  ceil- 
ing low. 

But  the  life  of  John  Leclerc  was  not  to  be  limited.  A 
power  has  stood  here  which  by  its  freedom  has  set  at  de- 
fiance the  customary  calculation  of  the  worldly-wise.  In 
high  places  and  in  low  the  people  are  this  night  disturbed 
because  of  him  who  has  dared  to  lift  his  voice  in  the  free- 
dom of  the  speech  of  God.  In  drawing-rooms  odorous 
with  luxury  the  man's  name  has  mention,  and  the  vulgarity 
of  his  liberated  speech  and  courageous  faith  is  a  theme  to 
move  the  wonder  and  excite  the  reprobation  of  hearts  whose 
languid  beating  keeps  up  their  show  of  life,  —  to  what 
sufficient  purpose  expect  me  not  to  tell.  His  voice  is  loud 
and  harsh  to  echo  through  these  music-loving  halls ;  it 
rends  and  tears,  with  almost  savage  strength,  the  dainty 
silences. 

But  busier  tongues  are  elsewhere  more  vehement  in 
speech  ;  larger  hearts  beat  faster  indignation ;  grief  and 
vulgarest  curiosity  are  all  manifesting  themselves  after  their 
several  necessity.  In  solitary  places  heroes  pray  through- 
out the  night,  wrestling  like  Jacob,  agonizing  like  Saul,  and 
with  some  of  them  the  angel  left  his  blessing ;  for  some 
the  golden  harp  was  struck  that  soothed  their  souls  to  peace. 
Angels  of  heaven  had  work  to  do  that  night.  Angels  of 
heaven  and  hell  did  prove  themselves  that  night  in  Meaux ; 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  205 

night  of  unrest  and  sleeplessness,  or  of  cruel  dreaming; 
night  of  bloody  visions,  tortured  by  the  apprehension  of  a 
lacerated  body  driven  through  the  city  streets,  and  of  the 
hooting  shouts  of  Devildom  ;  night-haunted  by  a  gory  im-. 
age,  —  the  denied  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 

Did  the  prospect  of  torture  keep  him  wakeful  ?  Could 
the  man  bear  the  disgrace,  the  derision,  shouting,  agony  ? 
Was  there  nothing  in  this  thought,  that  as  a  witness  of 
Jesus  Christ  he  was  to  appear  next  day,  that  should  soothe 
him  even  unto  slumber  ?  Upon  the  silence  of  his  guarded 
chamber  let  none  but  ministering  angels  break.  Sacred  to 
him,  and  to  Him  who  watched  the  hours  of  the  night,  let 
the  night  go ! 

But  here — his  mother,  Jacqueline  with  her  —  we  may 
linger  with  these. 


V. 

WHEN  the  old  woman  saw  that  it  was  Jacqueline 
Gabrie  who  stood  waiting  admittance,  she  opened 
the  door  wider,  as  I  said ;  and  the  dark  solemnity  of  her 
countenance  seemed  to  be,  by  so  much  as  a  single  ray, 
enlivened  for  an  instant. 

She  at  once  perceived  the  tracts  which  Jacqueline  had 
brought.  Aware  of  this,  the  girl  said,  — 

"  I  stayed  to  hear  them  read,  after  I  heard  that  for  the 
sake  of  the  truth  in  them"  —  she  hesitated  —  "this  city 
will  invite  God's  wrath  to-morrow." 

And  she  gave  the  papers  to  the  old  woman,  who  took 
them  in  silence. 

By  and  by  she  asked,  — 

"  Are  you  just  home,  Jacqueline  ?  " 

"  Since  sunset,  though  it  was  nearly  dark  when  I  came 
in,"  she  answered.  "Victor  Le  Roy  was  down  by  the 
river-bank,  and  he  read  them  for  me." 

"He  wanted  to  get  out  of  town,  may  be.  You  would 
surely  have  thought  it  was  a  holiday,  Jacqueline,  if  you 


206  Victor  and  Jacqtieline. 

could  have  seen  the  people.  Anything  for  a  show ;  but 
some  of  them  might  well  lament.  Did  you  want  to  know 
the  truth  he  pays  so  dear  for  teaching?  But  you  have 
heard  it,  my  child." 

"  We  all  heard  what  he  must  pay  for  it,  in  the  fields  at 
noon.  Yes,  mother,  I  wanted  to  know." 

"  But  if  you  shall  believe  it,  Jacqueline,  it  may  lead  you 
into  danger,  into  sad  straits,"  said  the  old  woman,  looking 
at  the  young  girl  with  earnest  pity  in  her  eyes. 

She  loved  this  girl,  and  shuddered  at  the  thought  of 
exposing  her  to  danger. 

Jacqueline  had  nursed  her  neighbor,  Antonine,  and  more 
than  once,  after  a  hard  day's  labor,  which  must  be  followed 
by  another,  she  had  sat  with  her  through  the  night;  and 
she  could  pay  this  service  only  with  love,  and  the  best  gift 
of  her  love  was  to  instruct  her  in  the  truth.  John  and  she 
had  proved  their  grateful  interest  in  her  fortunes  by  giving 
her  that  which  might  expose  her  to  danger,  persecution, 
and  they  could  not  foresee  to  what  extremity  of  evil. 

And  now  the  old  woman  felt  constrained  to  say  this  to 
her,  even  for  her  love's  sake,  —  "It  may  lead  you  into 
danger." 

"But  if  truth  is  dangerous,  shall  I  choose  to  be  safe?" 
answered  Jacqueline,  with  stately  courage. 

"  It  is  truth.  It  will  support  him.  Blessed  be  Jesirs 
Christ  and  His  witnesses  !  To-night,  and  to-morrow,  and 
the  third  day,  our  Jesus  will  sustain  him.  They  think  John 
will  retract.  They  do  not  know  my  son.  They  do  not 
know  how  he  has  waited,  prayed,  and  studied  to  learn  the 
truth,  and  how  dear  it  is  to  him.  No,  Jacqueline,  they  do 
not.  But  when  they  prove  him,  they  will  know.  And  if 
he  is  willing  to  witness,  shall  I  not  be  glad  ?  The  people 
will  understand  him  better  afterward,  —  and  the  priests, 
maybe.  '  I  can  do  all  things,'  said  he,  '  Christ  strengthen- 
ing me';  and  that  was  said  long  ago  by  one  who  was 
proved.  Where  shall  you  be,  Jacqueline  ? " 

"  O,"  groaned  Jacqueline,  "  I  shall  be  in  the  fields  at  work, 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  207 

away  from  these  cruel  people,  and  the  noise  and  the  sight. 
But,  mother,  where  shall  you  be?" 

"With  the  people,  child.  With  him,  if  I  live.  Yes,  he 
is  my  son ;  and  I  have  never  been  ashamed  of  the  brave 
boy.  I  will  not  be  ashamed  to-morrow.  I  will  follow  John  ; 
and  when  they  bind  him,  I  will  let  him  see  his  mother's  eyes 
are  on  him,  —  blessing  him,  my  child  !  —  Hark  !  how  they 
talk  through  the  streets  !  —  Jacqueline,  he  was  never  a 
coward.  He  is  strong,  too.  They  will  not  kill  him,  and 
they  cannot  make  him  dumb.  He  will  hold  the  truth  the 
faster  for  all  they  do  to  him.  Jesus  Christ  on  his  side,  do 
you  think  he  will  fear  the  city,  or  all  Paris,  or  all  France  ? 
He  does  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  afraid.  And  when  God 
opened  his  eyes  to  the  truth  of  his  Gospel,  which  the  priests 
had  hid,  he  meant  that  John  should  work  for  it ;  for  he  is 
a  working-man,  whatever  he  sets  about." 

So  this  old  woman  tried,  and  not  without  success,  to 
comfort  herself,  and  sustain  her  tender,  proud,  maternal 
heart.  The  dire  extremity  into  which  she  and  her  son  had 
fallen  did  not  crush  her ;  few  were  the  tears  that  fell  from 
her  eyes  as  she  recalled  for  Jacqueline  the  years  of  her 
son's  boyhood,  —  told  her  of  his  courage,  as  in  various 
ways  it  had  made  itself  manifest :  how  he  had  always  been 
fearless  in  danger,  —  a  conqueror  of  pain,  —  seemingly  re- 
gardless of  comfort,  —  fond  of  contemplation,  —  contented 
with  his  humble  state,  —  kindly,  affectionate,  generous,  but 
easily  stirred  to  wrath  by  injustice,  when  manifested  by  the 
strong  toward  the  weak,  or  by  cruelty,  or  by  falsehood. 

Many  an  anecdote  of  his  career  might  she  relate;  for 
his  character,  under  the  pressure  of  this  trial,  which  was 
as  searching  and  severe  a  test  of  her  faith  as  of  his,  seemed 
to  illustrate  itself  in  manifold  heroic  ways,  all  now  of  the 
highest  significance.  With  more  majesty  and  grandeur  his 
character  arose  before  her ;  for  now  in  all  the  past,  as  she 
surveyed  it,  she  beheld  a  living  power,  a  capability,  and  a 
necessity  of  new  and  grand  significance,  and  her  heart 
reverenced  the  spirit  she  had  nursed  into  being. 


208  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

Removed  to  the  distance  of  a  prison  from  her  sight, 
separated  from  her  love  by  bolts  and  bars,  and  the  wrath 
of  tyranny  and  close-banded  bigotry,  he  became  a  power, 
a  hero,  who  moved  her,  as  she  recalled  his  sentence,  and 
prophesied  the  morrow,  to  a  feeling  tears  could  not  ex- 
plain. 

They  passed  the  night  together,  the  young  woman  and 
the  old.  In  the  morning,  Jacqueline  must  go  into  the  field 
again.  She  was  in  haste  to  go.  Leaving  a  kiss  on  the  old 
woman's  cheek,  she  was  about  to  steal  away  in  silence  ; 
but  as  she  laid  her  hand  upon  the  latch,  a  thought  arrested 
her,  and  she  did  not  open  the  door,  but  went  back  and  sat 
beside  the  window,  and  watched  the  mother  of  Leclerc 
through  the  sleep  that  must  be  brief.  It  was  not  in  her 
heart  to  go  away  and  leave  those  eyes  to  waken  upon  soli- 
tude. She  must  see  a  helpful  hand  and  hopeful  face,  and, 
if  it  might  be,  hear  a  cheerful  human  voice,  in  the  dawning 
of  that  day. 

She  had  not  long  to  wait ;  and  the  time  she  may  have  lost 
in  waiting  Jacqueline  did  not  count  or  reckon,  when  she 
heard  her  name  spoken,  and  could  answer,  "What  wilt 
thou  ?  here  am  I." 

Not  in  vain  had  she  lingered.  What  were  wages,  more 
or  less,  that  they  should  be  mentioned,  thought  of,  when 
she  might  give  and  receive  here  what  the  world  gives  not, 
and  never  has  to  give,  and  what  a  mortal  cannot  buy, 
the  treasure  being  priceless  ?  Through  the  quiet  of  that 
morning  hour,  soothing  words,  and  strong,  she  felt  and 
knew  to  speak ;  and  when  at  last  she  hurried  away  from 
the  city  to  the  fields,  she  was  stronger  than  of  nature,  able 
to  bear  witness  to  the  faith  that  speaks  from  the  bewilder- 
ment of  its  distresses,  "Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I 
trust  in  Him." 

Not  alone  had  her  young,  frank,  loving  eyes  enlivened 
the  dreary  morning  to  the  heart  of  Leclerc's  mother.  Grace 
for  grace  had  she  received.  And  words  of  the  hymn  that 
were  always  on  John's  lips  had  found  echo  from  his  mother's 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  209 

memory  this  morning  :  they  lodged  in  the  heart  of  Jacque- 
line.    She  went  away  repeating,— 

"  In  the  midst  of  death,  the  jaws 

Of  hell  against  us  gape. 
Who  from  peril  dire  as  this 
Openeth  us  escape  ? 

'T  is  thou,  O  Lord,  alone  1 
Our  bitter  suffering  and  our  sin 
Pity  from  thy  mercy  win, 
Holy  Lord  and  God  I 
Strong  and  holy  God  f 
Merciful  and  holy  Saviour  ! 

Eternal  God  1 
Let  us  not  despair 
For  the  fire  that  burneth  there  I 
Kyrie,  eleison  1 " 

Jacqueline  met  Elsie  on  her  way  to  the  fields.  But  the 
girls  had  not  much  to  say  to  each  other  that  morning  in 
their  walk.  Elsie  was  manifestly  conscious  of  some  great 
constraint ;  she  might  have  reported  to  her  friend  what  she 
had  heard  in  the  streets  last  night,  but  she  felt  herself 
prevented  from  such  communication,  —  seemed  to  be  in- 
tent principally  on  one  thing :  she  would  not  commit  her- 
self in  any  direction.  She  was  looking  with  suspicion 
upon  Jacqueline.  Whatever  became  of  her  soul,  her  body 
she  would  save  alive.  '  She  was  waking  to  this  world's 
enjoyment  with  vision  alert,  senses  keen.  Martyrdom  in 
any  degree  was  without  attraction  to  her,  and  in  Truth  she 
saw  no  beauty  that  she  should  desire  it.  It  was  a  root  out 
of  dry  ground  indeed,  that  gave  no  promise  of  spreading 
into  goodly  shelter  and  entrancing  beauty. 

As  to  Jacqueline,  she  was  absorbed  in  her  heroic  and 
exalted  thoughts.  Her  heart  had  almost  failed  her  when 
she  said  farewell  to  John's  mother ;  tearfully  she  had  hur- 
ried on  her  way.  One  vast  cloud  hung  between  her  and 
heaven  ;  darkly  rolled  the  river ;  every  face  seemed  to  bear 
witness  to  the  tragedy  that  day  should  witness. 

Not  the  least  of  her  affliction  was  the  consciousness  of 
the  distance  increasing  between  herself  and  Elsie  Me'ril. 

N 


2IO  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

She  knew  that  Elsie  was  rejoicing  that  she  had  in  no  way 
endangered  herself  yet ;  and  sure  was  she  that  in  no  way 
would  Elsie  invite  the  fury  of  avenging  tyranny  and  reck- 
less superstition. 

Jacqueline  asked  her  no  questions,  —  spoke  few  words  to 
her,  —  was  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts.  But  she  was 
kindly  in  her  manner,  and  in  such  words  as  she  spoke. 
So  Elsie  perceived  two  things,  —  that  she  should  not  lose 
her  friend,  neither  was  in  danger  of  being  seized  by  the 
heretical  mania.  It  was  her  way  of  drawing  inferences. 
Certain  that  she  had  not  lost  her  friend,  because  Jacqueline 
did  not  look  away,  and  refuse  to  recognize  her ;  congratulat- 
ing herself  that  she  was  not  the  object  of  suspicion,  either 
justly  or  unjustly,  among  the  dreadful  priests. 

But  that  friend  whose  steady  eye  had  balanced  Elsie 
was  already  sick  at  heart,  for  she  knew  that  never  more 
must  she  rely  upon  this  girl  who  came  with  her  from 
Domre'my. 

As  they  crossed  the  bridge,  lingering  thereon  a  moment, 
the  river  seemed  to  moan  in  its  flowing  toward  Meaux. 
The  day's  light  was  sombre  ;  the  birds'  songs  had  no 
joyous  sound,  —  plaintive  was  their  chirping ;  it  saddened 
the  heart  to  hear  the  wind,  —  it  was  a  wind  that  seemed  to 
take  the  buoyancy  and  freshness  out  of  every  living  thing, 
an  ugly  southeast  wind.  They  went  on  together,  —  to  the 
wheat-fields  together.  It  was  to  be  day  of  minutes  to 
poor  Jacqueline. 

To  be  away  from  Meaux  bodily  was,  it  appeared,  only 
that  the  imagination  might  have  freer  exercise.  Yes, — 
now  the  people  must  be  moving  through  the  streets  ;  shop- 
men were  not  so  intent  on  profits  this  day  as  they  were  on 
Other  days.  The  priests  were  thinking  with  vengeful  hate 
of  the  wrong  to  themselves  which  should  be  met  and  con- 
quered that  day.  The  people  should  be  swiftly  brought 
into  order  again  !  John  in  his  prison  was  preparing,  as  all 
without  the  prison  were. 

The  crowd  was  gathering  fast.     He  would  soon  be  led 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  211 

forth.  The  shameful  march  was  forming.  Now  the  brutal 
hand  of  Power  was  lifted  with  scourges.  The  bravest  man 
in  Meaux  was  driven  through  the  streets,  —  she  saw  with 
what  a  visage,  —  she  knew  with  what  a  heart.  Her  heart 
was  awed  with  thinking  thereupon.  A  bloody  mist  seemed 
to  fall  upon  the  environs  of  Meaux ;  through  that  red 
horror  she  could  not  penetrate ;  it  shrouded  and  it  held 
poor  Jacqueline. 

,  Of  the  faith  that  would  sustain  him  she  began  once  more 
to  inquire.  It  is  not  by  a  bound  that  mortals  ever  clear  the 
heights  of  God".  Step  by  step  they  scale  the  eminences, 
toiling  through  the  heavenly  atmosphere.  Only  around  the 
summit  shines  the  eternal  sun. 

So  she  must  now  recall  the  words  that  Victor  Le  Roy 
read  for  her  last  night  ^  and  the  words  he  spoke  from  out 
his  heart,  —  these  also.  And  she  did  not  fear  now,  as 
yesterday,  to  ask  for  light.  Let  the  light  dawn,  —  oh,  let  it 
shine  on  her ! 

The  mother  of  Leclerc  had  uttered  mysterious  words 
which  Jacqueline  took  for  truth ;  the  light  was  joyful  and 
blessed,  and  of  all  things  to  be  desired,  though  it  smote  the 
life  from  one  like  lightning.  She  waited  alone  with  faith, 
watching  till  it  should  come,  —  left  alone  with  this  beam 
glimmering  like  a  moth  through  darkness  !  —  for  thus  was 
a  believer,  or  one  who  resolved  on  believing,  left  in  that 
day,  when  he  turned  from  the  machinery  of  the  Church, 
and  stood  alone,  searching  for  God  without  the  aid  of 
priestly  intervention. 

VI. 

THERE  was  something  awful  in  such  loneliness. 
Jacqueline  knew  little  of  it  until  now,  as  she  walked 
toward  the  fields,  by  the  side  of  Elsie  Me'ril. 

She  saw  how  she  had  depended  on  the  priest  of  Dom- 
re"my,  as  he  had  been  the  lawgiver  and  the  leader  of  her 
life.  A  spiritual  life,  to  be  sustained  only  by  the  invisible 


212  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

spirit,  to  be  lived  by  faith,  not  in  man,  but  in  God,  without 
intervention  of  saint  or  angel  or  Blessed  Virgin,  —  was  the 
world's  life  liberated  by  such  freedom  ? 

By  faith,  and  not  by  sight,  the  just  must  live.  Would 
He  bow  his  heavens  and  come  down  to  dwell  with  the 
contrite  and  the  humble? 

Wondrous  strange  it  seemed,  — incomprehensible,  — more 
than  she  could  manage  or  control.  There  are  prisoners 
whose  pardon  proves  the  world  too  large  for  them:  they 
find  no  rest  until  their  prison-door  is  opened  for  them  again. 

Of  this-  class  was  Elsie,  —  not  Jacqueline.  Elsie  was 
afraid  of  freedom,  —  not  equal  to  it,  —  unable  to  deal  with 
it ;  satisfied  with  being  a  child,  with  being  a  slave,  when  it 
came  to  be  a  question  whether  she  should  accept  and  use 
her  highest  privilege  and  dignity.  At  this  hour,  and  among 
all  persuasions,  you  will  find  that  Elsie  does  not  stand 
alone.  Little  children  there  are,  long  as  the  world  shall 
stand,  —  though  not  precisely  such  as  we  think  of  when  we 
remember,  "  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

It  was  enough  for  Elsie  —  it  is  enough  for  multitudes 
through  all  the  reformations  —  that  she  had  an  earthly 
defence,  even  such  as  she  relied  on  without  trouble.  She 
lived  in  the  hour.  She  had  never  toiled  to  deliver  her 
darling  from  the  lions,  —  to  redeem  a  soul  from  purgatory. 
She  eased  her  conscience,  when  it  was  troubled,  by  such 
shallow  discovery  of  herself  as  she  deemed  confession. 
She  loved  dancing,  and  all  other  amusements,  —  hated  soli- 
tude, knew  not  the  meaning  of  self-abnegation.  And  let 
her  dance  and  enjoy  herself !  —  some  service  to  the  body  is 
rendered  thereby.  She  might  do  greatly  worse,  and  is  in- 
capable of  doing  greatly  better.  Will  you  stint  the  idiots 
of  comfort,  —  or  rather  build  them  decent  habitations,  and 
even  vex  yourself  to  feed  and  clothe  them,  in  reverent  con- 
fidence that  the  Future  shall  surely  take  them  up  and  bless 
them,  unstop  their  ears,  open  their  eyes,  give  speech  to 
them  and  absolute  deliverance? 

There  are  others  beside  Elsie  who  congratulate  them- 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  213 

selves  on  non-committal,  —  they  covet  not  the  advanced 
and  dangerous  positions.  Honorable,  but  dangerous  posi- 
tions !  The  head  might  be  taken  off,  do  you  not  see  ? 
And  could  all  eternity  compensate  for  the  loss  of  time  ? 
Ah,  the  body  might  be  mutilated,  —  the  liberty  restrained  : 
as  if,  indeed,  a  man's  freedom  were  not  eternally  established, 
when  his  enemies,  howling  around,  must  at  least  crucify 
him  !  as  if  a  divine  voice  were  not  ever  heard  through  the 
raging  of  the  people,  saying,  "  Come  up  higher  ! " 

But  a  fern-leaf  cannot  grow  into  a  mighty  hemlock-tree. 
From  the  ashes  of  a  sparrow  the  phcenix  shall  not  rise. 
You  will  not  to  all  eternity,  by  any  artificial  means,  nor  by 
a  miracle,  bring  forth  an  eagle  from  a  mollusk. 

There  was  not  a  sadder  heart  in  all  those  fields  of  Meaux 
than  the  heart  of  Jacqueline  Gabrie.  There  was  not  a 
stronger  heart.  Not  a  hand  labored  more  diligently.  Under 
the  broad-brimmed  peasant-hat  was  a  sad  countenance,  — 
under  the  peasant-dress  a  heavily  burdened  spirit.  Silent, 
all  day,  she  labored.  She  was  alone  at  noon  under  the 
river-bordered  trees,  eating  her  coarse  fare  without  zest,  but 
with  a  conscience,  —  to  sustain  the  body  that  was  born  to 
toil.  But  in  the  maelstrom  of  doubt  and  anxiety  was  she 
tossed  and  whirled,  and  she  cared  not  for  her  life.  To  be 
rid  of  it,  now  for  the  first  time,  she  felt  might  be  a  blessing. 
What  purpose,  indeed,  had  she?  She  turned  her  thought 
from  this  question,  but  it  would  not  let  her  alone.  Again 
and  yet  again  she  turned  to  meet  it,  and  thus  would  surely 
have  at  length  its  satisfying  answer. 

John  Leclerc  might  pass  through  this  ordeal,  as  from 
the  first  she  had  expected  of  him.  But  she  listened  to  the 
speech  of  many  of  her  fellow-laborers.  Some  prophecies 
which  had  a  sound  incredible  escaped  them.  She  did  not 
credit  them,  but  they  tormented  her.  They  contended  with 
one  another.  John,  some  foretold,  would  certainly  retract. 
One  day  of  public  whipping  would  suffice.  When  the 
blood  began  to  flow,  he  would  see  his  duty  clearer  !  The 
men  were  prophesying  from  the  depths  and  the  abundance 


214  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

of  their  self-consciousness.  Others  speculated  on  the  final 
result  of  the  executed  sentence.  They  believed  that  the 
"obstinacy"  and  courage  of  the  man  would  provoke  his 
judges,  and  the  executors  of  his  sentence ;  that  with  rigor 
they  would  execute  it;  and  that,  led  on  by  passion,  and 
provoked  by  such  as  would  side  with  the  victim,  the  sen- 
tence would  terminate  in  his  destruction.  Sooner  or  later, 
nothing  but  his  life  would  be  found  ultimately  to  satisfy  his 
enemies. 

It  might  be  so,  thought  Jacqueline  Gabrie.  What  tKen  ? 
what  then  ?  —  she  thought.  There  was  inspiration  to  the 
girl  in  that  cruel  prophecy.  Her  life-work  was  not  ended. 
If  Christ  was  the  One  Ransom,  and  it  did  truly  fall  on 
Him,  and  not  on  her,  to  care  for  those  beloved,  departed 
from  this  life,  her  work  was  still  for  love. 

John  Leclerc  disabled  or  dead,  who  should  care  then  for 
his  aged  mother?  Who  should  minister  to  him?  Who, 
indeed,  but  Jacqueline  ? 

Living  or  dying,  she  said  to  herself,  with  grand  enthusi- 
asm, —  living  or  dying,  let  him  do  the  Master's  pleasure ! 
She  also  was  here  to  serve  that  Master;  and  while  in 
spiritual  things  he  fed  the  hungry,  clothed  the  naked,  gave 
the  cup  of  living  water,  visited  the  imprisoned,  and  the 
sick  of  sin,  she  would  bind  herself  to  minister  to  him  and 
his  old  mother  in  temporal  things  ;  so  should  he  live  above 
all  cares  save  those  of  heavenly  love.  She  could  support 
them  all  by  her  diligence,  and  in  this  there  would  be  joy. 

She  thought  this  through  her  toil ;  and  the  thought  was 
its  own  reward.  It  strengthened  her  like  an  angel, — 
strengthened  heart  and  faith.  She  labored  as  no  other 
peasant- woman  did  that  day, — like  a  beast  of  burden, 
unresisting,  patient,  —  like  a  holy  saint,  so  peaceful  and 
assured,  so  conscious  of  the  present  very  God  ! 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  21$ 


VII. 

THE  three  days  passed  away.  And  every  hour's  pro- 
gress was  marked  as  it  passed  over  the  citizens  of 
Meaux.  Leclerc,  and  the  doctrines  for  which  he  suffered, 
filled  the  people's  thought ;  he  was  their  theme  of  speech. 
Wonder  softened  into  pity;  unbelief  was  goaded  by  his 
stripes  to  cruelty ;  faith  became  transfigured,  while  he, 
followed  by  the  hooting  crowd,  endured  the  penalty  of  faith. 
Some  men  looked  on  with  awe  that  would  become  adoring ; 
some  with  surprise  that  would  take  refuge  in  study  and 
conviction.  There  were  tears  as  well  as  exultation,  solemn 
joy  as  well  as  execration,  in  his  train.  The  mother  of 
Leclerc  followed  him  with  her  undaunted  testimony,  "  Bless- 
ed be  Jesus  Christ  and  His  Witnesses  !  " 

By  day,  in  the  field,  Jacqueline  Gabrie  thought  over  the 
reports  she  heard,  through  the  harvesters,  of  the  city's  feel- 
ing, of  its  purpose,  of  its  judgment ;  by  night  she  prayed 
and  hoped,  with  the  mother  of  Leclerc  ;  and  wondrous  was 
the  growth  her  faith  had  in  those  days. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  Jacqueline  and  Elsie 
walked  into  Meaux  together.  This  was  not  invariably  their 
habit.  Elsie  had  avoided  too  frequent  conversation  with 
her  friend .  of  late.  She  knew  their  paths  were  separate, 
•  and  was  never  so  persuaded  of  the  fact  as  this  night,  when, 
of  her  own  will,  she  sought  to  walk  with  Jacqueline.  The 
sad  face  of  her  friend  troubled  her;  it  moved  her  con- 
science that  she  did  not  deeply  share  in  her  anxiety.  When 
they  came  from  Domre'my,  she  had  relied  on  Jacqueline : 
there  was  safety  in  her  counsel,  —  there  was  wisdom  in  it : 
but  now,  either  ? 

"  It  made  me  scream  outright,  when  I  saw  the  play,"  said 
she  ;  "  but  it  is  worse  to  see  your  face  now-a-days,  —  it  is 
more  terrible,  Jacqueline." 

Jacqueline  made  no  reply  to  this;  and  Elsie  regarded 
the  silence  as  sufficient  provocation. 


216  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

"  You  seem  to  think  I  have  no  feeling,"  said  she.  "  I  am 
as  sorry  about  the  poor  fellows  as  you  can  be.  But  I  can- 
not look  as  if  I  thought  the  day  of  judgment  close  at  hand, 
when  I  don't,  Jacqueline." 

"  Very  well,  Elsie.     I  am  not  complaining  of  your  looks." 

"  But  you  are,  —  or  you  might  as  well." 

"  Let  not  that  trouble  you,  Elsie.  Your  face  is  smooth, 
at  least ;  and  your  voice  does  not  sound  like  the  voice  of 
one  who  is  in  grief.  Rejoice,  —  for,  as  you  say,  you  have  a 
right  to  yourself,  with  which  I  am  not  to  interfere.  We  are 
old  friends,  —  we  came  away  from  Lorraine  together.  Do 
not  forget  that.  I  never  will  forget  it." 
.  "  But  you  are  done  with  me.  You  say  nothing  to  me.  I 
might  as  well  be  dead,  for  all  you  care." 

"  Let  us  not  talk  of  such  things  in  this  manner,"  said 
Jacqueline,  mildly.  But  the  dignity  of  her  rebuke  was  felt, 
for  Elsie  said,  — 

"  But  I  seem  to  have  lost  you,  —  and  now  we  are  alone 
together,  I  may  say  it.  Yes,  I  have  lost  you,  Jacqueline  !  " 

"  This  is  not  the  first  time  we  have  been  alone  together 
in  these  dreadful  three  days."  . 

"  But  now  I  cannot  help  speaking." 

"  You  could  help  it  before.  Why,  Elsie  ?  You  had  not 
made  up  your  mind.  But  now  you  have,  or  you  would  not 
speak,  and  insist  on  speaking.  What  have  you  to  say, 
then?"  ' 

"  Jacqueline  !     Are  you  Jacqueline  ?  " 

"Am  I  not?" 

"You  seem  not  to  be." 

"  How  is  it,  Elsie  ?  " 

"You  are  silent  and  stern,  and  I  think  you  are  very 
unhappy,  Jacqueline." 

"  I  do  not  know,  —  not  unhappy,  I  think.  Perhaps  I 
am  silent,  —  I  have  been  so  busy.  But  for  all  it  is  so 
dreadful  —  no  !  not  unhappy,  Elsie." 

"  Thinking  of  Leclerc  all'  the  while  ?  " 

"  Of  him  ?     O,  no  !     I  have  not  been  thinking  of  him,  — 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  217 

not  constantly.  Jesus  Christ  will  take  care  of  him.  His 
mother  is  quiet,  thinking  that.  I,  at  least,  can  be  as  strong 
as  she.  I  'in  not  thinking  of  the  shame  and  cruelty,  —  but 
of  what  that  can  be  worth  which  is  so  much  to  him,  that  he 
counts  this  punishment,  as  they  call  it,  as  nothing,  as  hardly 
pain,  certainly  not  disgrace.  The  Truth,  Elsie  !  —  if  I  have 
not  as  much  to  say,  it  is  because  I  have  been  trying  to  find 
the  Trufh." 

"But  if  you  have  found  it,  then  I  hope  I  never' shall,  — 
if  it  is  the  Truth  that  makes  you  so  gloomy.  I  thought  it 
was  this  business  in  Meaux." 

"  Gloomy  ?  when  it  may  be  I  have  found,  or  shall  find  —  " 

Here  Jacqueline  hesitated,  —  looked  at  Elsie.  Grave 
enough  was  that  look  to  expel  every  frivolous  feeling  from 
the  heart  of  Elsie,  —  at  least,  so  Ibng  as  she  remained 
under  its  influence.  It  was  something  to  trust  another  as 
Jacqueline  intended  .now  to  trust  her  friend.  It  was  a 
touching  sight  to  see  her  seeking  her  old  confidence,  and 
appearing  to  rely  on  it,  while  she  knew  how  frail  the  reed 
was.  But  this  girl,  frivolous  as  was  her  spirit,  this  girl  had 
come  with  her  from  the  distant  native  village ;  their  child- 
hood's recollections  were  the  same.  And  Jacqueline  deter- 
mined now  to  trust  her.  For  in  times  of  blasting  heat  the 
shadow  even  of  the  gourd  is  not  to  be  despised. 

"  You  know  what  I  have  looked  for  so  long,  Elsie,"  she 
said  ;  "  you  ought  to  rejoice  with  me.  I  need  work  for  that 
no  longer." 

"What  is  that,  Jacqueline?" 

Even  this  question,  betraying  no  such  apprehension  as 
Jacqueline's  word's  seemed  to  intimate,  did  not  disturb  the 
girl.  She  was  in  the  mood  wKen,  notwithstanding  her  show 
of  dependence,  she  was  really  in  no  such  necessity,  Never 
was  she  stronger  than  now  when  she  put  off  all  show  of 
strength.  Elsie  stood  before  her  in  place  of  the  opposing 
world.  To  Elsie's  question  she  replied  as  readily  as  though 
she  -anticipated  the  word,  and  had  no  expectation  of  better 
recollection,  —  not  to  speak  of  better  apprehension. 
10 


218  Victor  and  Jacqtieline. 

"  To  bring  him  out  of  suffering  he  has  never  been  made 
to  endure,  as  surely  as  God  lives.  As  if  the  Almighty 
judged  men  so !  I  shall  send  back  no  more  money  to 
Father  La  Croi'x.  It  is  not  his  prayer,  nor  my  earnings, 
that  will  have  to  do  with  the  eternity  of  John  Gabrie.  —  Do 
you  hear  me,  Elsie?" 

"  I  seem  to,  Jacqueline." 

"  Have  I  any  cause  for  wretched  looks,  then  ?  .  \  am  in 
sight  of  better  fortune  than  I  ever  hoped  for  in  this  world." 

"  Then  don't  look  so  fearful.  It  is  enough  to  scare  one. 
You  are  not  a  girl  to  choose  to  be  a  fright,  —  unless  this 
dreadful  city  has  changed  you  altogether  from  what  you 
were.  You  would  frighten  the  Domre'my  children  with 
such  a  face  as  that ;  they  used  not  to  fear  Jacqueline." 

"  I  shall  soon  be  sailing  on  a  smoother  sea.  As  it  is,  do 
not  speak  of  my  looks.  That  is  too  foolish." 

'  "  But,  O,  I  feel  as  if  I  must  hold  you,  —  hold  you  !  — 
you  are  leaving  me  !  " 

"  Come  on,  Elsie  !  "  exclaimed  Jacqueline,  as  though  she 
almost  hoped  this  of  her  dear  companion. 

"  But  where  ?  "  asked  Elsie,  not  so  tenderly. 

"Where  God  leads.     I  cannot  tell." 

"  I  do  not  understand." 

"You  would  not  think  the  Truth  worth  buying  at  the 
price  of  your  life  ?  " 

"  My  life  ?  " 

"  Or  such  a  price  as  he  pays  who  —  has  been  branded 
to-day  ?  " 

"It  was  not  the  truth  to  your  mother,  —  or  to  mine.  It 
was  not  the  truth  to  any  one  we  ever  knew,  till  we  came 
here  to  Meaux." 

"It  is  true  to  my  heart,  Elsie.  It  is  true  to  my  con- 
science. I  know  that  I  can  live  for  it.  And  it  may 
be  —  " 

"  Hush  !  —  do  not !  O,  I  wish  that  I  could  get  you  back 
to  Domre'my  !  What  is  going  to  come  of  this  ?  Jacque- 
line, let  us  go  home.  Come,  let  us  start  to-night.  We  shall 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  219 

have  the  moon  all  night  to  walk  by.  There  is  nothing  in 
Meaux  for  us.  O,  if  we  had  never  come-  away  !  It  would 
have  been  better  for  you  to  work  there  for  what  you  wanted, 
—  for  what  you  came  here  to  do." 

"  No,  let  God's  Truth  triumph  !  What  am  I  ?  Less 
than  that  rush  !  But  if  His  breath  is  upon  me,  I  will  be 
moved  by  it,  —  I  am  not  a  stone." 

Then  they  walked  on  in  silence.  Elsie  had  used  her 
utmost  of  persuasion,  but  Jacqueline  not  her  utmost  of 
resistance.  Her  companion  knew  this,  felt  her  weakness  in 
such  a  contest,  and  was  silent. 

On  to  town  they  went  together.  They  walked  together 
through  the  streets,  passing  constantly  knots  of  people  who 
stood  about  the  corners  and  among  the  shops,  discussing, 
what  had  taken  place  that  day.  They  crossed  the  square 
where  the  noonday  sun  had  shone  on  crowds  of  people, 
men  and  women,  gathered  from  the  four  quarters  of  the 
town  arid  the  neighboring  country,  assembled  to  witness 
the  branding  of  a  heretic.  They  entered  their  court-yard 
together,  —  ascended  the  stairway  leading  to  their  lodging. 
But  they  were  two,  —  not  one. 

Elsie's  chief  desire  had  been  to  get  Jacqueline  safely  into 
the  house  ere  she  could  find  opportunity  for  expression  of 
what  was  passing  in  her  mind.  Her  fear  was  even  greater* 
than  her  curiosity.  She  had  no  desire  to  learn,  under  these 
present  circumstances,  the  arguments  and  incidents  which 
the  knots  'of  men  and  women  were  discussing  with  so  much 
vehemence  as  they  passed  by.  She  could  guess  enough  to 
satisfy  her.  So  she  had  hurried  along,  betraying  more 
eagerness  than  was  common  with  her  to  get  out  of  the 
street.  Not  often  was  she  so  overcome  of  weariness, — 
not  often  so  annoyed  by  heat  and  dust!  Jacqueline,  with- 
out remonstrance,  followed  her.  But  they  were  two,  -— 
not  one. 

Once  safe  in  their  upper  room,  Elsie  appeared  to  be,  after 
all,  not  so  devoid  of  interest  in  what  was  passing  in  the 
street  as  her  hurried  walk  would  seem  to  betoken.  She 


22O  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

had  not  quite  yet  lost  her  taste  for  excitement  and  display. 
For  immediately  she  seated  herself  by  the  window,  and 
was  all  eye  and  ear  to  what  went  on  outside. 

Jacqueline's  demonstrations  also  were  quite  other  than 
might  have  been  anticipated.  Each  step  she  took  in  her 
chamber  gave  an  indication  that  she  had  a  purpose,  and 
that  she  would  perform  it. 

She  removed  from  her  dress  the  dust  and  stain  of  toil, 
arranged  her  hair,  made  herself  clean  and  decent,  to  meet 
the  sober  gaze  of  others.  Then  she  placed  upon  the  table 
the  remains  of  their  breakfast ;  but  she  ate  nothing. 


VIII. 

IT  was  nearly  dark  when  Jacqueline  said  to  Elsie,  — 
"  I  am  now  going  to  see  John  and  his  mother.  I  must 
see  with  my  own  eyes,  and  hear  with  my  own  ears.  I  may 
be  able  to  help  them,  —  and  I  know  they  will  be  able  to 
help  me.  John's  word  will  be  worth  hearing,  —  and  I  want 
to  hear  it.  He  must  have  learned  in  these  days  more  than 
we  shall  ever  be  able  to  learn  for  ourselves.  Will  you  go 
with  me  ?  " 

"  No,"  cried  Elsie,  —  as  though  she  feared  she  might 
against  her  will  be  taken  into  such  company.  Then,  not 
for  her  own  sake,  but  for  Jacqueline's,  she  added,  almost  as 
if  she  hoped  that  she  might  prove  successful  in  persuasion, 
"  I  remember  my  father  and  mother.  What  they  taught 
me  I  believe.  And  that  I  shall  live  by.  I  shall  never  be 
wiser  than  they  were.  And  I  know  I  never  can  be  happier. 
They  were  good  and  honest.  Jacqueline,  we  shall  never 
be  as  happy  again  as  we  were  in  Domre'my,  when  the 
pastor  blessed  us,  and  we  hunted  flowers  for  the  altar, — 
never  !  —  never  ! "  And  Elsie  Me'ril,  overcome  by  her  recol- 
lections and  her  presentiments,  burst  into  tears. 

"It  was  the  happiness  of  ignorance,"  said  Jacqueline, 
after  a  solemn  silence,  full  of  hurried  thought.  "  No,  —  I, 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  221 

for  one,  shall  never  be  as  happy  as  I  was  then.  But  my 
joy  will  be  full  of  peace  and  bliss.  It  will  be  full  of  satis- 
faction, —  very  different,  but  such  as  belongs  to  me,  such 
as  I  must  not  do  without.  God  led  us  from  Domre'my,  and 
with  me  shall  He  do  as  seemeth  good  to  Him.  We  were 
children  then,  Elsie ;  but  now  may  we  be  children  no 
longer  ! " 

"I  will  be  faithful  to  my  mother.  Go,  Jacqueline, — let 
me  alone." 

Elsie  said  this  with  so  much  spirit  that  Jacqueline  an- 
swered quickly,  and  yet  very  kindly,  — 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  trouble  you,  dear,  —  but  —  no  matter 
now." 

No  sooner  had  Jacqueline  left  the  house  than  Elsie  went 
down  to  a  church  near  by,  where  she  confessed  herself  to 
the  priest,  and  received  such  goodly  counsel  as  was  calcu- 
lated to  fortify  her  against  Jacqueline  in  the  future. 

Jacqueline  went  to  the  house  of  the  wool-comber,  as  of 
late  had  been  her  nightly  custom,  —  but  not,  as  heretofore, 
to  lighten  the  loneliness  and  anxiety  of  the  mother  of 
Leclerc.  Already  she  had  said  to  the  old  woman,  — 

"  I  need  not  work  now  for  my  father's  redemption.  Then 
I  will  work  for  you,  if  your  son  is  disabled.  Let  us  believe 
tliat  God  brought  me  here  for  this.  I  am  strong.  You  can 
lean  on  me.  Try  it." 

Now  she  went  to  make  repetition  of  the  promise  to 
Leclerc,  if,  perchance,  he  had  come  back  to  his  mother  sick 
and  sore  and  helpless.  For  this  reason,  when  she  entered 
the  humble  home  of  the  martyr,  his  eyes  fell  'on  her,  and 
he  saw  her  as  she  had  been  an  angel ;  how  serene  was  her 
countenance ;  and  her  courage  was  manifestly  such  as  no 
mortal  fear,  no  human  affliction,  could  dismay. 

Already  in  that  room  faithful  friends  had  gathered  to 
congratulate  the  living  man,  and  to  refresh  their  strength 
from  the  abounding  richness  of  his. 

Martial   Mazurier,  the  noted  preacher,  was  there,   and 


222  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

Victor  Le  Roy;  besides  these,  others,  unknown  by  name 
or  presence  to  Jacqueline. 

Among  them  was  the  wool-comber, — wounded  with 
many  stripes,  branded,  a  heretic !  But  a  man  still,  it  ap- 
peared,—  a  living  man,  —  brave  as  any  hero,  determined 
as  a  saint,  —  ready  to  proclaim  now  the  love  of  God,  and 
from  the  couch  where  he  was  lying  to  testify  to  Jesus  and 
his  Truth. 

It  was  a  goodly  sight  to  see  the  tenderness  of  these  men 
here  gathered ;  how  they  were  forgetful  of  .all  inequalities 
of  station,  such  as  worldlings  live  by,  —  meeting  on  a  new 
ground,  and  greeting  one  another  in  a  new  spirit. 

They  had  come  to  learn  of  John.  A  halo  surrounded 
him ;  he  was  transfigured ;  and  through  that  cloud  of 
glory  they  would  fain  penetrate.  Perchance  his  eyes,  as 
Stephen's,  had  seen  heaven  open,  when  men  had  tried 
their  torments.  At  least,  they  had  witnessed,  when  they  fol- 
lowed the  crowd,  that  his  face,  in  contrast  with  theirs  who 
tormented,  shone,  as  it  had  been  the  face  of  an  angel. 
They  had  witnessed  his  testimony  given  in  the  heroic  en- 
durance of  physical  pain.  There  was  more  to  be  learned 
than  the  crowd  were  fit  to  hear  or  could  hear.  Broken 
strains  of  the  Lord's  song  they  heard  him  singing  through 
the  torture.  Now  they  had  come  longing  for  the  full 
burden  of  that  divinest  melody. 

Jacqueline  entered  the  room  quietly,  scarcely  observed. 
She  sat  down  by  the  door,  and  it  chanced  to  be  near  the 
mother  of  Leclerc,  near  Victor  Le  Roy. 

To  their  conversation  she  listened  as  one  who  listens  for 
his  life,  —  td  the  reading  of  the  Scripture,  —  to  the  singing 
of  the  psalm,  —  that  grand  old  version,  — 

"  Out  of  the  depths  I  cry  to  thee, 

Lord  God  !     O,  hear  my  prayer  ! 
Incline  a  gracious  ear  to  me, 

And  bid  me  not  despair. 
If  thou  rememberest  each  misdeed,  \ 
If  each  should  have  its  rightful  meed, 

Lord,  who  shall  stand  before  thee  ? 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  223 


"  Lord,  through  thy  love  alone  we  gain 

The  pardon  of  our  sin  : 
The  strictest  life  is  but  in  vain, 

Our  works  can  nothing  win, 
That  man  should  boast  himself  of  aught, 
But  own  in  fear  thy  grace  hath  wrought 

What  in  him  seemeth  righteous. 

"Wherefore  my  hope  is  in  the  Lord, 

My  works  I  count  but  dust ; 
I  build  not  there,  but  on  his  word, 

And  in  his  goodness  trust. 
Up  to  his  care  myself  I  yield  ; 
He  is  my  tower,  my  rock,  my  shield  ; 

And  for  his  help  I  tarry." 


To  the  praying  of  the  broken  voice  of  John  Leclerc  she 
listened.  In  his  prayer  she  joined.  To  the  eloquence  of 
Mazurier,  whose  utterances  she  laid  up  in  her  heart,  —  to 
the  fervor  of  Le  Roy,  which  left  her  eyes  not  dry,  her  soul 
not  calm,  but  strong  in  its  commotion,  grasping  fast  the 
eternal  truths  which  he,  too,  would  proclaim,  she  listened. 

She  was  not  only  now  among  them,  she  was  of  them,  — 
of  them  forevermore.  Though  she  should  never  again  look 
on  those  faces,  nor  listen  to  those  voices,  of  them,  of  all 
they  represented,  was  she  forevermore.  Their  God  was 
hers,  —  their  faith  was  hers  ;  their  danger  would  she  share, 
—  their  work  would  aid. 

Their  talk  was  of  the  Truth,  and  of  the  future  of  the 
Truth.  Well  .they  understood  that  the  spirit  roused  among 
the  people  would  not  be  quieted  again,  —  that  what  of 
ferocity  in  the  nature  of  the  bigot  and  the  powerful  had 
been  appeased  had  but  for  the  moment  been  satisfied. 
There  would  be  unremitting  watch  for  victims  ;  everywhere 
the  net  for  the  unwary  and  the  fearless  would  be  laid. 
Blood-thirstiness  and  lust  and  covetousness  would  make 
grand  their  disguises,  —  broad  would  their  phylacteries  be 
made,  —  shining  with  sacred  gems,  their  breastplates. 

Of  course  it  was  of  the  great  God's  honor  these  men 
would  be  jealous.  This  heresy  must  needs  be  uprooted,  or 


224  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

no  knowing  where  would  be  the  end  of  the  wild  growth. 
And,  indeed,  there  was  no  disputing  the  fact  that  there  was 
danger  in  open  acceptance  of  such  doctrines  as .  defy  the 
authority  of  priestcraft,  —  ay,  danger  to  falsehood,  and 
death  to  falsehood ! 

Fanaticism,  cowardice,  cruelty,  the  spirit  of  persecution, 
the  spirit  of  authority  aroused,  ignorance  and  vanity  and 
foolishness  would  make  themselves  companions,  no  doubt. 
Should  Truth  succumb  to  these?  Should  Love  retreat 
before  the  fierce  onset  of  Hate  ?  These  brave  men  said 
not  so.  And  they  looked  above  them  and  all  human  aid 
for  succor, — Jacqueline  with  them. 

When  Mazurier  and  Victor  Le  Roy  went  away,  they  left 
Jacqueline  with  the  wool-comber's  mother,  but  they  did  not 
pass  by  her  without  notice.  Martial  lingered  for  a  moment, 
looking  down  on  the  young  girl. 

"  She  is  one  of  us,"  said  the  old  woman. 
-     Then  the  preacher  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head,  and 
blessed  her. 

"  Continue  in  prayer,  and  listen  to  the  testimony  of  the 
Holy  Ghost,"  said  he.  "  Then  shall  you  surely  come  deep 
into  the  blessed  knowledge  and  the  dear  love  of  Jesus 
Christ." 

When  he  had  passed  on,  Victor  paused  in  turn. 

"  It  is  good  to  be  here,  Jacqueline,"  said  he.  "  This  is 
the  house  of  God ;  this  is  the  gate  of  heaven." 

And  he  also  went  forth,  whither  Mazurier  had  gone. 

Then  beside  the  bed  of  the  poor  wool-comber,  women, 
like  angels  ministered,  binding  up  his  wounds,  and  sooth- 
ing him  with  voices  soft  as  ever  spoke  to  man.  And  from 
the  peasant  whose  toil  was  in  harvest-fields  and  vineyards 
came  offers  of  assistance  which  the  poor  can  best  give  the 
poor. 

But  the  wool-comber  did  not  need  the  hard-earned  pence 
of  Jacqueline.  When  she  said,  "  Let  me  serve  you  now,  as 
a  daughter  and  a  sister,  you  two,"  —  he  made  no  mistake  in 
regard  to  her  words  and  offer.  But  he  had  no  need  of  just 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  225 

such  service  as  she  stood  prepared  to  render.  In  his  toil 
he  had  looked  forward  to  the  seasons  of  adversity,  had 
provided  for  a  dark  day's  disablement ;  and  he  was  able 
now  to  smile  upon  his  mother  and  on  Jacqueline,  and  to 
say,— 

"  I  will,  indeed,  be  a  brother  to  you,  and  my  mother  will 
love  you  as  if  you  were  her  child.  But  we  shall  not  take 
the  bread  from  your  mouth  to  prove  it.  Our  daughter  and 
our  sister  in  the  Lord,  we  thank  you  and  love  you,  Jacque- 
line. I  know  what  you  have  been  doing  since  I  went  away. 
The  Lord  love  you,  Jacqueline !  You  will  no  longer  be  a 
stranger  and  friendless  in  Meaux,  while  John  Leclerc  and 
his  mother  are  alive,  —  nay,  as  long  as  a  true  man  or 
woman  lives  in  Meaux.  Fear  not." 

"  I  will  not  fear,"  said  Jacqueline. 

And  she  sat  by  the  side  of  the  mother  of  Leclerc,  and 
thought  of  her  own  mother  in  the  heavens,  and  was  tran- 
quil, and  prepared,  she  said  to  herself,  to  walk,  if  indeed 
she  must,  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  and 
would  still  fear  no  evil. 


IX. 


STRENGTHENED  and  inspired  by  the  scenes  of  the 
last  three  days,  Martial  Mazurier  began  to  preach 
with  an  enthusiasm,  bravery,  and  eloquence  unknown  be- 
fore to  his  hearers.  He  threw  himself  into  the  work  of 
preaching  the  new  revelation  of  the  ancient  eternal  Truth, 
with  an  ardor  that  defied  authority,  that  scorned  danger, 
and  with  a  recklessness  that  had  its  own  reward. 

Victor  Le  Roy  was  his  ardent  admirer,  his  constant 
follower,  his  loving  friend,  his  servant.  Day  by  day  this 
youth  was  studying  with  indefatigable  zeal  the  truths  and 
doctrines  adopted  by  his  teacher.  Enchanted  by  the  wise 
man's  eloquence,  ahfcady  a  convert  to  the  faith  he  magnified, 
he  was  prepared  to  follow  wherever  the  preacher  led.  The 
10*  o 


226  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

fascination  of  danger  he  felt,  and  was  allured  by.  Frown- 
ing faces  had  for  him  no  terrors.  He  could  defy  evil. 

Jacqueline  and  he  might  be  called  most  friendly  students. 
Often  in  the  cool  of  the  day  the  young  man  walked  out 
from  Meaux  along  the  'country-roads,  and  his  face  was 
always  toward  the  setting  sun,  whence  towards  the  east 
Jacqueline  at  that  hour  would  be  coming.  The  girls  were 
living  in  the  region  of  the  vineyards  now,  and  among  the 
vines  they  worked. 

It  began  to  be  remarked  by  some  of  their  companions 
how  much  Jacqueline  Gabrie  and  the  young  student  from 
the  city  walked  together.  But  the  subject  of  their  dis- 
course, as  they  rested  under  the  trees  that  fringed  the  river, 
was  not  within  the  range  of  common  speculation ;  far 
enough  removed  from  the  ordinary  use  to  which  the  peas- 
ants put  their  thought  was  the  thinking  of  Le  Roy  and 
Jacqueline. 

Often  Victor  went,  carefully  and  with  a  student's  pre- 
cision, over  the  grounds  of  Martial's  arguments,  for  the 
satisfaction  of  Jacqueline.  Much  pride  as  well  as  joy  had 
he  in  the  service  ;  for  he  reverenced  his  teacher,  and  feared 
nothing  so  much,  in  these  repetitions,  as  that  this  listener, 
this  animated,  thinking,  feeling  Jacqueline,  should  lose  any- 
thing by  his  transmission  of  the  preacher's  arguments  and 
eloquence. 

And  sometimes,  on  those  special  occasions  which  were 
now  constantly  occurring,  she  walked  with  him  to  the  town, 
and  hearkened  for  herself  in  the  assemblages  of  those  who 
were  now  one  in  the  faith. 

Elsie  looked  on  and  wondered,  but  did  not  jest  with 
Jacqueline,  as  girls  are  wont  to  jest  with  one  another  on 
such  points  as  seemed  involved  in  this  friendship  between 
youth  and  youth,  between  man  and  woman. 

Towards  the  conclusion  of  the  girl's  appointed  labor  in 
the  vineyard,  a  week  passed  in  which  Victor  Le  Roy  had 
not  once  come  out  from  Meaux  in  fee  direction  of  the 
setting  sun.  He  knew  the  time  when  the  peasants'  labor  in 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  227 

the  vineyard  would  be  done ;  Jacqueline  had  told  him  ; 
and  with  wonder,  and  with  trouble,  she  lived  through  the 
days  that  brought  no  word  from  him. 

At  work  early  and  late,  Jacqueline  had  no  opportunity  of 
discovering  what  was  going  on  in  Meaux.  But  it  chanced, 
on  the  last  day  of  the  last  week  in  the  vineyard,  tidings 
reached  her :  Martial  Mazurier  had  been  arrested,  and 
would  be  tried,  the  rumor  said,  as  John  Leclerc  had  been 
tried;  and  sentence  would  be  pronounced,  doubtless,  said 
conjecture,  severe  in  proportion  to  the  influence  the  man 
had  acquired,  to  the  position  he  held. 

Hearing  this,  oppressed,  troubled,  yet  not  doubting,  Jac- 
queline determined  that  she  would  go  to  Meaux  that  even- 
ing, and  so  ascertain  the  truth.  She  said  nothing  to  Elsie 
of  her  purpose.  She  was  careful  in  all  things  to  aveid  that 
which  might  involve  her  companion  in  peril  in  an  unknown 
future  ;  but  at  nightfall  she  had  made  herself  ready  to  set 
out  for  Meaux,  when  her  purpose  was  changed  in  the  first 
steps  by  the  appearance  of  Victor  Le  Roy. 
.  He  had  come  to  Jacqueline,  —  had  but  one  purpose  in 
his  coming  ;  yet  it  was  she  who  must  say,  — 

"  Is  it  true,  Victor,  that  Martial  Mazurier  is  in  prison  ?" 

His  answer  surprised  her. 

"No,  it  is  not  true." 

But  his  countenance  did  not  answer  the  glad  expression 
of  her  face  with  an  equal  smile.  His  gravity  almost  com- 
municated itself  to  her.  Yet  this  rebound  from  her  recent 
dismay  surely  might  demand  an  opportunity. 

"  I  believe  you,"  said  she.  "  But  I  was  coming  to  see  if 
it  could  be  true.  It  was  hard  to  believe,  and  yet  it  has 
cost  me  a  great  deal  to  persuade  myself  against  belief, 
Victor." 

"  It  will  cost  you  still  more,  Jacqueline.    Martial  Mazurier 
has  recanted." 
1  "He  has  been  in  prison,  then?" 

"  He  has  retracted,  and  is  free  again,  —  has  denied  him- 
self. No  more  glorious  words  from  him,  Jacqueline,  such 


228  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

as  we  have  heard  !  He  has  sold  himself  to  the  Devil,  you 
see." 

"^Mazurier?" 

"  Mazurier  has  thought  raiment  better  than  life.  He  has 
believed  a  man's  life  to  consist  in  the  abundance  of  the 
things  he  possesseth,"  said  the  youth,  bitterly.  He  con- 
tinued, looking  steadfastly  at  Jacqueline,  "  Probably  I  must 
give  up  the  Truth  also.  My  uncle  is  dead:  'must  I  not 
secure  my  possessions  ?  —  for  I  am  no  longer  a  poor  man  ; 
I  cannot  afford  to  let  my  life  fall  into  the  hands  of  those 
wolves." 

"  Mazurier  retracted  ?  I  cannot  believe  it,  Victor  Le 
Roy!" 

"  Believe,  then,  that  yesterday  the  man  was  in  prison,  and 
to-day  he  is  at  large.  Yes,  he  says  that  he  can  serve  Jesus 
Christ  more  favorably,  more  successfully,  by  complying 
with  the  will  of  the  bishop  and  the  priests.  You  see  the 
force  of  his  argument.  If  he  should  be  silenced,  or  im- 
prisoned long,  or  his  life  should  be  cut  off,  he  would  then 
be  able  to  preach  no  more  at  all  in  any  way.  He  only  does 
not  believe  that  whosoever  will  save  his  life,  in  opposition 
to  the  law  of  the  everlasting  Gospel,  must  lose  it." 

"  O,  do  you  remember  what  he  said  to  John,  —  what  he 
prayed  in  that  room  ?  O,  Victor,  what  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  It  means  what  cannot  be  spoken,  —  what  I  dare  not  say 
or  think." 

"  Not  that  we  are  wrong,  mistaken,  Victor  ?  " 

"  No,  Jacqueline,  never  !  it  can  never  mean  that !  What- 
ever we  may  do  with  the  Truth,  we  cannot  make  it  false. 
We  may  act  like  cowards,  unworthy,  ungrateful,  ignorant ; 
but  the  truth  will  remain,  Jacqueline." 

"Victor,  you  could  not  desert  it." 

"  How  can  I  tell,  Jacqueline  ?  The  last  time  I  saw 
Martial  Mazurier,  he  would  have  said  nobler  and  more 
loving  words  than  I  can  command.  But  with  my  own  eyes 
I  saw  him  walking  at  liberty  in  streets  where  liberty  for 
him  to  walk  could  be  bought  only  at  an  infamous  price." 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  229 

"  Is  there  such  danger  for  all  men  .who  believe  with  John 
Leclerc,  and  with  —  with  you,  Victor?" 

"Yes,  there  is  danger,  such  danger." 

"  Then  you  must  go  away.  You  must  not  stay  in  Meaux," 
she  said,  quickly,  in  a  low,  determined  voice. 

"  Jacqueline,  I  must  remain  in  Meaux,"  he  answered,  as 
quickly,  with  flushed  face  and  flashing  eyes.  The  dignity 
of  conscious  integrity,  and  the  "fear  of  fear,"  a  beholder 
who  could  discern  the  tokens  might  have  perceived  in  him. 

"  O,  then,  who  can  tell  ?  Did  he  not  pray  that  he  might 
not  be  led  into  temptation  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Victor  replied,  more  troubled  than  scornful,  — 
"  yes,  and  allowed  himself  to  be  led  at  last." 

"  But  if  you  should  go  away  —  " 

"Would  not  that  be  flying  from  danger?"  he  asked, 
proudly. 

"  Nay,  might  it  not  be  doing  with  your  might  what  you 
found  to  do,  that  you  might  not  be  led  into  temptation  ?" 

"  And  you  are  afraid,  that,  if  I  stay  here,  I  shall  yield  to 
them." 

"  You  say  you  are  not  certain,  Victor.  You  repeat  Ma- 
zurier's  words." 

"  Yet  shall  I  remain.     No,  I  will  never  run  away." 

The  pride  of  the  young  fellow,  and  the  consternation 
occasioned  by  the  recreancy  of  his  superior,  his  belief  in 
the  doctrines  he  had  confessed  with  Mazurier,  and  the 
timeserving  of  the  latter,  had  evidently  thrown  asunder 
the  guards  of  his  peace,  and  produced  a  sad  state  of  con- 
fusion. 

"  It  were  better  to  run  away,"  said  Jacqueline,  not  paus- 
ing to  choose  the  word,  —  "  far  better  than  to  stay  and  defy 
the  Devil,  and  then  find  that  you  could  not  resist  him, 
Victor.  O,  if  we  could  go,  as  Elsie  said,  back  to  Domre'my, 
anywhere  away  from  this  cruel  Meaux  !  " 

"  Have  you,  then,  gained  nothing,  Jacqueline  ?  " 

"  Everything.    But  to  lose  it,  —  oh,  I  cannot  afford  that !  " 

"  Let  us  stand  together,  then.     Promise  me,  Jacqueline," 


230  Victor  and  Jacqiteline. 

he  exclaimed,  eagerly,  as  though  he  felt  himself  among 
defences  here,  with  her. 

"What  shall  I  promise,  Victor?"  she  asked,  with  the 
voice  and  the  look  of  one  who  is  ready  for  any  deed  of 
daring,  for  any  work  of  love. 

"  I,  too,  have  preached  this  word." 

Her  only  comment  was,  "  I  know  you  preached  it  well." 

"  What  has  befallen  others  may  befall  me." 

"  Well." 

So  strong  f  ?o  confidently  did  she  speak  this  word,  that 
the  young  man  went  on,  manifestly  influenced  by  it,  hesitat- 
ing no  more  in  his  speech. 

"  May  befall  me,"  he  repeated. 

"  '  Whosoever  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet 
shall  he  live,' "  she  answered,  with  lofty  voice,  repeating  the 
divine  word.  "  What  is  our  life,  that  we  should  hold  it  at 
the  expense  of  his  Truth  ?  Mazurier  was  wrong.  He  can 
never  atone  for  the  wrong  he  has  done." 

"  I  believe  it ! "  exclaimed  Victor,  with  a  brightening 
countenance.  The  clouds  of  doubt  rose  from  his  face  and 
floated  away,  as  we  see  the  mists  ascending  from  the 
heights,  when  we  are  so  happy  as  to  live  in  the  wild  hill- 
country.  "  You  prize  Truth  m<  re  than  life.  Stand  with  me 
in  this,  Jacqueline.  Speak  of  this  Truth  as  it  has  come  to 
me.  You  are  all  that  I  have  left.  I  have  lost  Mazurier. 
Jacqueline,  you  are  a  woman,  but  you  never,  —  yes  !  yes  ! 
though  I  dare  not  say  as  much  of  myself,  I  dare  say  it  of 
you,  — ^  you  never  could  have  bought  your  liberty  at  such  a 
price  as.  Martial  has  paid.  I  know  not  how,  even  with  the 
or  ^rtunity,  he  will  ever  gain  the  courage  to  speak  of  these 
things  again, — those  great  mysteries  which  are  hidden 
from  the  eyes  of  the  covetous  and  worldly  and  unbelieving. 
Promise,  stand  with  me,  Jacqueline,  and  I  will  rely  on  you. 
Forsake  me  not." 

"  Victor,  has  He  not  said,  who  can  best  say  it,  '  I  will 
never  leave  you  nor  forsake  you '  ?  " 

"  But,  Jacqueline,  I  love  you." 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  231 

Having  said  these  words,  the  face  of  the  young  man 
emerged  wholly  from  the  eclipse  of  the  former  shadow. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  said  the  brave  peasant  from  Domremy, 
manifestly  doubting  whether  she  had  heard  aright ;  and  her 
clear  pure  eyes  were  gazing  full  on  Victor  Le  Roy,  actually 
looking  for  an  explanation  of  his  words. 

"  I  love  you,  Jacqueline,"  he  repeated.  "  And  I  do  not 
involve  you  in  danger,  oh,  my  friend  !  Only  let  me  have  it 
to  believe  that  my  life  is  dear  to  Jacqueline,  and  I  shall  not 
be  afraid  then  to  lose  it,  if  that  testimoi  V  required  of 
me.  Shall  we  not  stand  side  by  side,  soldiers  of  Christ, 
stronger  in  each  other  than  in  all  the  world  beside  ?  Shall 
it  not  be  so,  Jacqueline  ?  True  heart,  answer  me  !  And 
if  you  will  not  love  me,  at  least  say,  say  you  are  my  friend, 
you  trust  me.  I  will  hold  your  safety  sacred." 

"  I  am  your  friend,  Victor." 

"  Say  my  wife,  Jacqueline.  I  honored  you,  that  you  came 
from  Domrdmy.  You  are  my  very  dream  of  Joan,  —  as 
brave  and  as  true,  as  beautiful.  Jacqueline,  it  is  not  all  for 
the  Truth's  sake,  but  for  my  love's  sake.  Is  not  our  work 
one,  moreover  ?  Are  we  not  one  in  heart  and  purpose,  Jac- 
queline ?  You  are  alone  ;  let  me  protect  you." 

He  needed  no  other  answer  than  he  had  while  his  eyes 
constantly  sought  hers.  Her  calm  look,  the  dignity  and 
strength  of  her  composure,  assured  him  of  all  he  longed  to 
learn,  —  assured  him  that  their  hearts,  even  as  their  pur- 
poses and  faith,  were  one." 

"  But  speak  one  word,"  he  urged. 

The  word  she  spoke  was,  "  I  can  be  true  to  you,  Victor." 

Won  hardly  by  a  word:  too  easily,  you  think£ruShe 
loved  the  youth,  my  friends,  and  she  loved  the  Truth  for 
which  he  dared  not  say  that  he  could  sacrifice  himself. 

"  We  are  one,  then,"  said  Victor  Le  Roy.  "It  concerned 
me  above  all  things  to  prove  that,  Jacqueline.  So  you 
shall  have  no  more  to  do  with  these  harvest-fields  and  vine- 
yards henceforth,  except  to  eat  of  the  fruits,  if  God  will. 
You  have  borne  all  the  burden  and  heat  of  labor  you  shall 


232  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

ever  bear.  I  can  say  that,  with  God's  blessing.  We  shall 
sit  under  our  own  vine.  Death  in  one  direction  has  pre- 
pared for  life  in  another.  I  inherit  what  my  uncle  can 
make  use  of  no  longer.  We  shall  look  out  on  our  own 
fields,  our  harvests  ;  for  I  think  this  city  will  keep  us  no 
longer  than  may  be  needful.  We  will  go  away  into  Picardy, 
and  I  will  show  you  where  our  Joan  was  a  prisoner ;  and 
we  will  go  back  to  Domre'my,  and  walk  in  the  places  she 
loved,  and  pray  God  to  bless  us  by  that  fountain,  and  in 
the  graveyard  where  your  father  and  mother  sleep.  O,  Jac- 
queline, is  it  not  all  blessed  and  all  fair  ?" 

She  could  hardly  comprehend  all  the  brightness  of  this 
vision  which  Victor  Le  Roy  would  fain  bring  before  her. 
The  paths  he  pointed  out  to  her  were  new  and  strange  ; 
but  she  could  trust  him,  could  believe  that  together  they 
might  walk  without  stumbling. 

She  had  nothing  to  say  of  her  unfitness,  her  unworthi- 
ness,  to  occupy  the  place  to  which  he  pointed.  Not  a 
doubt,  not  a  fear,  had  she  to  express.  He  loved  her,  and 
that  she  knew  ;  and  she  had  no  thought  of  depreciating  his 
choice,  its  excellency,  or  its  wisdom.  Whatever  excess  of 
wonder  she  may  have  felt  was  not  communicated.  How 
know  I  that  she  marvelled  at  her  lover's  choice,  though  all 
the  world  might  marvel? 

Then  remembering  Mazurier,  and  thinking  of  her  strength 
of  faith,  and  her  high-heartedness,  he  was  eager  that  Jac- 
queline should  appoint  their  marriage-day.  And  more 
than  he,  perhaps,  supposed  was  betrayed  by  this  haste. 
He  made  his  words  profoundly  good.  Strong  woman  that 
she  was,  he  wanted  her  strength  joined  to  his.  He  was 
secretly  disquieted,  secretly  afraid  to  trust  himself,  since 
this  defection  of  Martial  Mazurier. 

What  did  hinder  them?  They  might  be  married  on 
Sunday,  if  she  would  :  they  might  go  down  together  to  the 
estate,  which  he  must  immediately  visit. 

Through  the  hurry  of  thought,  and  the  agitation  of  heart, 
and  the  rush  of  seeming  impossibilities,  he  brought  out  at 
length  in  triumph  her  consent. 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  233 

She  did  consent.  It  should  all  be  as  he  wished.  And 
so  they  parted  outside  that  town  of  Meaux  on  the  fair 
summer  evening,  —  plighted  lovers,  —  hopeful  man  and  wo- 
man. For  them  the  evening  sky  was  lovely  with  the  day's 
last  light ;  for  them  the  serene  stars  of  night  arose. 

So  they  parted  under  the  open  sky :  he  going  forward 
to  the  city,  strengthened  and  refreshed  in  faith  and  holy 
courage  ;  she,  adorned  with  holy  hopes  which  never  until 
now  had  found  place  among  her  visions.  Neither  was  she 
prepared  for  them,  until  he  brought  them  to  a  heart  which, 
indeed,  could  never  be  dismayed  by  the  approach  and  claim 
of  love. 

Love  was  no  strange  guest.  Fresh  and  fair  as  Zephyrus, 
he  came  from  the  forest  depths,  and  she  welcomed  him  ; 
no  stranger,  though  the  breath  that  bore  him  was  all  heav- 
enly, and  his  aspiration  was  remote  from  earthly  sources. 
Yes,  she  so  imagined. 

She  went  back  to  the  cottage  where  she  and  Elsie  lodged 
now,  to  tell  Elsie  what  had  happened,  —  to  thankfulness,  — 
to  gazing  forward  into  a  new  world,  —  to  aspiration,  ex- 
pectation, joy,  humility,  —  to  wonder,  and  to  praise,  —  to 
all  that  my  best  reader  will  perceive  must  be  true  of  Jac- 
queline on  this  great  evening  of  her  life. 


X. 

THAT  same  night  Victor  Le  Roy  was  arrested  on  charge 
of  heresy,  —  arrested  and  imprisoned.     Watchmen 
were  on  the  look-out  when  the  lover  walked  forward  with 
triumphant  steps  to  Meaux. 

"  This  fellow  also  was  among  the  wool-comber's  disci- 
ples," said  they  ;  and  their  successful  dealing  with  Mazurier 
encouraged  the  authorities  to  hope  that  soon  all  this  evil 
would  be  overcome,  trampled  in  the  dust.  This  impudent 
insurrection  of  thought  should  certainly  be  stifled  ;  youth 
and  age,  high  station,  low,  should  be  taught  alike  of  Rome. 


234  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

Tidings  reached  Martial  Mazurier  next  da/  of  what  had 
befallen  Victor  Le  Roy,  and  he  went  instantly  to  visit  him 
in  prison.  It  was  an  interview  which  the  tender-hearted 
officials  would  have  invited,  had  he  not  forestalled  them  by 
inviting  himself  to  the  duty.  Mazurier  had  something  to 
do  in  the  matter  of  reconciling  his  conscience  to  the  part 
he  had  taken,  in  his  recent  opportunity  to  prove  himself 
equally  a  hero  with  Leclerc.  He  had  recanted,  done  evil, 
in  short,  that  good  might  come  ;  and  was  not  content  with 
having  done  this  thing  :  how  should  he  be  ?  Now  that  his 
follower  was  in  the  same  position,  he  had  but  one  wish,  — 
that  he  should  follow  his  example.  He  did  not,  perhaps, 
entirely  ascertain  his  motive  in  this  ;  but  it  is  hardly  to  be 
supposed  that  Mazurier  was  so  persuaded  of  the  justice  of 
his  course  that  he  desired  to  have  it  imitated  by  another 
under  the  same  circumstances. 

No  !  he  was  forever  disgraced  in  his  own  eyes,  when  he 
remembered  the  valiant  John  Leclerc  ;  and  it  was  not  to  be 
permitted  that  Victor  Le  Roy  should  follow  the  example  of 
the  wool-comber  in  preference  to  that  he  had  given,  —  that 
politic,  wise,  blood-sparing,  flesh-loving,  truth-depreciating, 
God-defrauding  example. 

Accordingly  he  lost  no  time  in  seeking  Victor  in  his  cell. 
It  was  the  very  cell  in  which  he  himself  had  lately  been 
imprisoned.  Within  those  narrow  walls  he  had  meditated, 
prayed,  and  made  his  choice.  There  he  had  stood  face  to 
face  with  fate,  with  God,  with  Jesus,  and  had  decided  — 
not  in  favor  of  the  flogging,  and  the  branding,  and  the 
glorious  infamy.  There,  in  spite  of  eloquence  and  fervor 
and  devotion,  in  spite  of  all  his  past  vows  and  his  hopes, 
he  had  decided  to  take  the  place  and  part  of  a  timeserver  ; 
for  he  feared  disgrace  and  pain,  and  the  hissing  and  scoff 
and  persecution,  more  than  he  feared  the  blasting  anger 
of  insulted  and  forsaken  Truth. 

He  found  Victor  within  his  cell,  his  Bright  face  not  over- 
cast with  gloom,  his  eyes  not  betraying  doubts,  neither 
disappointed,  astonished,  nor  in  deep  dejection.  The  mood 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  235 

he  deemed  unfavorable  for  his  special  word,  —  poor,  de- 
ceived, self-deceiving  Mazurier  ! 

He  was  not  merely  surprised  at  these  indications, — he 
was  at  a  loss.  A  little  trepidation,  doubt,  suspicion  would 
have  better  suited  him.  Alas  !  and  was  his  hour  the  ex- 
tremity of  another's  weakness,  not  in  the  elevation  of 
another's  spiritual  strength  ?  Once  when  he  preached  the 
Truth  as  moved  by  the  Holy  Ghost,  it  was  not  to  the  pru- 
dence or  the  worldly  wisdom  of  his  hearers  he  appealed, 
but  to  the  higher  feelings  and  the  noblest  powers  of  men. 
Then  he  called  on  them  to  praise  God  by  their  faith  in  all 
that  added  to  His  glory  and  dominion.  But  now  his  elo- 
quence was  otherwise  directed  ;  not  full  of  the  old  fire  and 
enthusiasm  ;  not  trustful  in  God,  but  dependent  on  pru- 
dence, as  though  all  help  were  in  man.  He  had  to  draw 
from  his  own  experience  now,  things  new  and  old,  —  and 
was  not,  by  confession  of  the  result  of  such  experience, 
humiliated  ! 

"  You  are  under  a  mistake,"  was  his  argument.  "  You 
have  not  gone  deep  into  these  matters ;  you  have  made 
acquaintance  only  with  the  agitated  surface  of  them."  And 
he  proceeded  to  make  good  -all  this  assertion,  it  was 
so  readily  proven !  He  also  had  been  beguiled  ;  ah,  had 
he  not  ?  He  had  been  beguiled  by  the  rude  eloquence,  the 
insensibility  to  pain,  the  pride  of  opposition,  the  pride  of 
poverty,  the  pride  of  a  rude  nature,  exhibited  by  John 
Leclerc. 

He  acknowledged  freely,  with  a  fatal  candor,  that,  until 
he  came  to  consider  these  things  in  their  true  light,  when 
shut  away  from  all  outward  influences,  until  compelled  to 
quiet  meditation  beyond  the  reach  and  influence  of  mere 
enthusiasm,  he  had  believed  with  Leclerc,  even  as  Victor 
was  believing  now.  He  could  have  gone  on,  who  might 
tell  to  what  fanatica-1  length  ?  had  it  not  been  for  that  fortu- 
nate arrest  which  made  a  sane  man  of  him  ! 

Leclerc  was  not  quite  in  the  wrong  ;  not  absolutely,  — 
but  neither  was  he,  as  Mazurier  had  once  believed,  glo- 


236  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

riously  in  the  right.  It  was  clearly  apparent  to  him,  that 
Victor  Le  Roy,  having  now  also  like  opportunity  for  calm 
reflection,  would  come  to  like  conclusions. 

With  such  confident  prophecy,  Mazurier  left  the  young 
man.  His  visit  was  brief  and  hurried,  —  no  duty  that  could 
be  waved  should  call  him  away  from  his  friend  at  such 
a  time  ;  but  he  would  return  ;  they  would  speak  of  this 
again  ;  and  he  kissed  Victor,  and  blessed  him,  and  went 
out  to  bid  the  authorities  delay  yet  before  the  lad  was 
brought  to  trial,  for  he  was  confident,  that,  if  left  to  reflec- 
tion, he  would  come  to  his  senses,  and  choose  wisely  — 
between  God  and  Mammon?  Mazurier  expressed  it  in 
another  way. 

In  the  street,  Elsie  MeVil  heard  of  Victor's  arrest,  and 
she  brought  the  news  to  Jacqueline.  They  had  returned 
to  Meaux,  to  their  old  lodging,  and  a  day  had  passed,  dur- 
ing which,  moment  by  moment,  his  arrival  was  anticipated. 
Elsie  went  out  to  buy  a  gift  for  Jacqueline,  a  bit  of  fine 
apparelling  which  she  had  coveted  from  the  moment  she 
knew  Jacqueline  should  be  a  bride.  She  stole  away  on  her 
errand  without  remark,  and  came  back  with  the  gift ;  but 
also  with  that  which  made  it  valueless,  unmentionable, 
though  it  was  a  costly  offering,  purchased  with  the  wages 
of  more  than  a  week's  labor  in  the  fields. 

It  was  almost  dark  when  she  returned  to  Jacqueline. 
Her  friend  was  sitting  by  the  window,  —  waiting,  — not  for 
her  ;  and  when  she  went  in  to  her,  it  was  silently,  with  no 
mention  of  her  errand  or  her  love-gift.  Quietly  she  sat 
down,  thankful  that  the  night  was  falling,  waiting  for  its 
darkness  before  she  should  speak  words  which  would  make 
the  darkness  to  be  felt. 

"  He  does  not  come,"  said  Jacqueline,  at  length. 

"  Did  you  think  it  was  he,  when  I  came  up  tKe  stairs  ?  " 
inquired  Elsie,  tenderly. 

**  O,  no  !  I  can  tell  your  step  from  all  the  rest." 

"His,  too,  I  think." 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  237 

"Yes,  and  his,  too.  My  best  friends.  Strange,  if  I 
could  not !  " 

"  O,  I  'm  glad  you  said  that,  Jacqueline  !  " 

"  My  best  friends,"  repeated  Jacqueline  ;  not  merely  to 
please  Elsie.  Love  had  opened  wide  her  heart ;  and  Elsie, 
weak  and  foolish  though  she  might  be,  —  Elsie,  her  old 
companion,  her  playmate,  her  fellow-laborer,  —  Elsie,  who 
should  be  to  her  a  sister  always,  and  share  in  her  good- 
fortune,  —  Elsie  had  honorable  place  there. 

"  Could  anything  have  happened,  Jacqueline  ?"  said  Elsie, 
trembling  :  her  tremulous  voice  betrayed  it. 

"  O,  I  think  not,"  was  the  answer. 

"  But  he  is  so  fearless  ;  he  might  have  fallen  into  — 
into  trouble." 

"  What  have  you  heard,  Elsie  ?  " 

This  question  was  quietly  asked,  but  it  struck  to  the 
heart  of  the  questioned  girl.  Jacqueline  suspected  !  —  and 
yet  Jacqueline  asked  so  calmly  !  Jacqueline  could  hear  it ; 
and  yet  how  could  this  be  declared  ? 

Her  hesitation  quickened  what  was  hardly  suspicion  into 
a  conviction. 

"  What  have  you  heard  ?  "  Jacqueline  again  questioned, 
not  so  calmly  as  before  ;  and  yet  it  was  quite  calm,  even  to 
the  alarmed  ear  of  Elsie  MeVil. 

"  They  have  arrested  Victor,  Jacqueline." 

"For  heresy?" 

"  I  heard  it  in  the  street." 

Jacqueline  arose,  —  she  crossed  the  chamber,  —  her  hand 
was  on  the  latch.  Instantly  Elsie  stood  beside  her. 

"  What  will  you  do  ?     I  must  go  with  you,  Jacqueline." 

"  Where  will  you  go  ?  "  said  Jacqueline. 

"  With  you.  Wait,  —  what  is  it  you  will  do  ?  Or,  —  no 
matter,  go  on,  I  will  follow  you,  —  and  take  the  danger 
with  you." 

"  Is  there  danger  ?  For  him  there  is  !  and  there  might 
be  for  you,  —  but  none  for  me.  Stay,  Elsie.  Where  shall 
I  go,  in  truth?" 


238  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

Yet  she  opened  the  door,  and  began  to  descend  the  stairs 
even  while  she  spoke  ;  and  Elsie  followed  her. 

First  to  the  house  of  the  wool-comber.  John  was  not  at 
home  ;  and  his  mother  could  tell  them  nothing,  had  heard 
nothing  of  the  arrest  of  Victor.  Then  to  the  place  which 
Victor  had  pointed  out  to  her  as  the  home  of  Mazurier. 
Mazurier  likewise  they  failed  to  find.  Where,  then,  was 
the  prison  of  Le  Roy's  captivity  ?  That  no  man  could  tell 
them  ;  so  they  came  home  to  their  lodging  at  length  in  the 
dark  night,  there  to  wait  through  endless-seeming  hours  for 
morning. 

On  the  Sunday  they  had  chosen  for  their  wedding-day 
Mazurier  brought  word  of  Victor  to  Jacqueline,  —  was  really 
a  messenger,  as  he  announced  himself,  when  she  opened 
for  him  the  door  of  her  room  in  the  fourth  story  of  the 
great  lodging-house.  He  had  come  on  that  day  with  a 
message  ;  but  it  was  not  in  all  things  —  in  little  beside  the 
love  it  was  meant  to  prove  —  the  message  Victor  had  de- 
sired to  convey.  In  want  of  more  faithful,  more  trust- 
worthy messenger,  Le  Roy  sent  word  by  this  man  of  his 
arrest,  —  and  bade  Jacqueline  pray  for  him,  and  come  to 
him,  if  that  were  possible.  He  desired,  he  said,  to  serve 
his  Master,  —  and,  of  all  things,  sought  the  Truth. 

To  go  to  the  prisoner,  Mazurier  assured  Jacqueline,  was 
impossible,  but  she  might  send  a  message  ;  indeed,  he  was 
here  to  serve  his  dear  friends.  Ah,  poor  girl,  did  she  trust 
the  man  by  whom  she  sent  into  a  prison  words  like  these  ?  — 

"  Hold  fast  to  the  faith  that  is  in  you,  Victor.  Let 
nothing  persuade  you  that  you  have  been  mistaken.  We 
asked  for  light,  —  it  was  given  us,  —  let  us  walk  in  it ;  and 
no  matter  where  it  leads,  —  since  the  light  is  from  heaven. 
Do  not  think  of  me,  nor  of  yourself,  but  only  of  Jesus 
Christ,  who  said,  '  Whosoever  would  save  his  life  shall 
lose  it.' " 

Mazurier  took  this  message.  What  did  he  do  with  it  ? 
He  tossed  it  to  the  winds. 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  239 

A  week  after,  Le  Roy  was  brought  to  trial,  —  and  re- 
canted ;  and  so  recanting,  was  acquitted  and  set  at  liberty. 

Mazurier  supposed  that  he  meant  all  kindly  in  the  exer- 
tion he  made  to  save  his  friend.  He  would  never  have 
ceased  from  self-reproach,  had  he  conveyed  the  words  of 
Jacqueline  to  Victor ;  for  the  effect  of  those  words  he 
could  clearly  foresee.  And  so  far  from  attempting  to  bring 
about  an  interview  between  the  pair,  he  would  have  striven 
to  prevent  it,  had  he  seen  a  probability  that  it  would  be 
allowed.  He  set  little  value  on  such  words  as  Jacqueline 
spoke,  when  her  conscience  and  her  love  rose  up  against 
each  other.  The  words  she  had  committed  to  him  he  could 
account  for  by  no  supposition  acceptable  and  reasonable 
to  him.  There  was  something  about  the  girl  he  did  not 
understand  ;  she  was  no  fit  guide  for  a  man  who  had  need 
of  clear  judgment,  when  such  a  decision  was  to  be  made  as 
the  court  demanded  of  Le  Roy. 

Elsie  Mdril,  between  hope  and  fear,  was  dumb  in  these 
days  ;  but  her  presence  and  her  tenderness,  though  not  he- 
roic in  action  nor  wise  in  utterance,  had  a  value  of  which 
neither  she  nor  Jacqueline  was  fully  aware. 

When  Jacqueline  learned  the  issue  of  the  trial,  and  that 
Victor  had  falsified  his  faith,  her  first  impulse  was  to  fly, 
that  she  might  never  see  his  face  again.  For,  the  instant 
she  heard  his  choice,  her  heart  told  her  what  she  had  been 
hoping  during  these  days  of  suspense.  She  had  tried  to 
see  Martial  Mazurier,  but  without  success,  since  he  con- 
veyed, or  promised  to  convey,  her  message  to  the  prisoner. 
Of  purpose  he  had  avoided  her.  He  guessed  what  strength 
she  would  by  this  time  have  attained ;  and  he  was  deter- 
mined to  save  both  to  each  other,  though  it  might  be 
against  their  will. 


240  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 


XL 

VICTOR  LE  ROY'S  first  endeavor,  on  being  liberated, 
was  —  of  course  to  find  Jacqueline  ?  Not  so.  That 
was  far  from  his  first  design.  His  impulse  was  to  avoid 
the  girl  he  had  dared  to  love.  Mazurier  had,  indeed,  con- 
veyed to  his  mind  an  impression  that  would  have  satisfied 
him,  if  anything  of  this  character  could  do  so.  But  this 
was  impossible.  The  secret  of  his  disquiet  was  far  too 
profound  for  such  easy  removal. 

He  had  not  in  himself  the  witness  that  he  had  fulfilled 
the  will  of  God.  He  was  disquieted,  humiliated,  wretched. 
He  could  not  think  of  Leclerc,  nor  upon  his  protestations, 
except  with  shame  and  remorse,  —  remorse,  already.  In 
his  heart,  in  spite  of  the  impression  Mazurier  had  contrived 
to  convey,  he  believed  not  that  Jacqueline  would  bless  him 
to  such  work  as  he  could  henceforth  perform,  no  longer  a 
free  man,  no  longer  possessed  of  liberty  of  speech  and 
thought. 

He  had  no  sooner  renounced  his  liberty  than  he  became 
persuaded,  by  an  overwhelming  reasoning,  as  he  had  never 
been  convinced  before,  of  the  pricelessness  of  that  he  had 
sacrificed.  When  he"  went  from  the  court-room,  from  the 
presence  of  his  judges,  he  was  not  a  free  man,  though  the 
dignitaries  called  him  so.  Martial  Mazurier  walked  arm 
in  arm  with  him  ;  but  the  world  was  a  den  of  horrors,  a 
blackened  and  accursed  world,  to  the  young  man  who  came 
from  prison,  free  to  use  his  freedom  —  as  the  priests  di- 
rected ! 

He  went  home  from  the  prison  with  Mazurier.  The 
world  had  conquered.  Love  had  conquered,  —  Love,  that 
in  the  conquest  felt  itself  disgraced.  He  had  sold  the 
divine,  he  had  received  the  human  :  it  was  the  old  pottage 
speculation  over  again.  This  privilege  of  liberty  from  his 
dungeon  had  looked  so  fair  !  — but  now  it  seemed  so  worth- 
less !  This  prospect  of  life  so  priceless  in  contemplation 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  241 

of  its  loss,  —  O,  the  beggar  who  crept  past  him  was  an 
enviable  man  compared  with  young  Victor  Le  Roy,  the 
heir  of  love  and  riches,  the  heir  of  liberty  and  life  ! 

Yes,  —  he  went  home  with  Mazurier.  Where  else  should 
he  go  ?  Congratulations  attended  him.  He  was  compelled 
to  receive  them  with  a  countenance  not  too  sombre,  and  a 
grace  not  all  thankless,  or  —  or  —  they  would  say  it  was  of 
cowardice  he  had  saved  his  precious  body  from  the  sen- 
tence of  the  judges,  and  given  his  precious  LIFE  up  to  the 
sentence  of  the  JUDGE. 

Yes,  —  Martial  took  him  home.  There  they  might  talk 
at  leisure  of  those  things,  —  and  ask  a  blessing  on  the 
testimony  of  Jesus,  made  and  kept  by  them  ! 

Victor  Le  Roy  was  too  proud  to  complain  now.  He  as- 
sented to  all  the  preacher's  sophistry.  He  allowed  himself 
to  be  cheered.  But  this  was  no  such  evening  as  had  been 
spent  in  the  room  of  the  wool-comber,  when  Leclerc's  voice, 
strong,  even  through  his  weakness,  called  on  God,  and 
blessed  and  praised  Him,  and  the  spirit  conquered  the  flesh 
gloriously,  —  the  old  mother  of  Leclerc  sharing  his  joy,  as 
she  had  also  shared  his  anguish.  Here  was  no  Jacqueline 
to  say  to  Victor,  "  Thou  hast  done  well !  '  Glory  be  to 
Jesus  Christ  and  His  witnesses  ! '" 

Mazurier  thanked  God  for  the  deliverance  of  His  servant ! 
He  dedicated  himself  and  Victor  anew  to  the  service  of 
Truth,  which  they  had  shrunk  from  defending !  And  his 
eloquence  and  fervor  seemed  to  stamp  the  words  with 
sincerity.  He  seemed  not  in  the  least  to  suspect  or  fear 
himself. 

With  Victor  Le  Roy  such  self-deception,  such  sophistry, 
was  simply  impossible. 

Not  of  purpose  did  he  meet  Jacqueline  that  night  She 
had  heard  that  Le  Roy  was  at  liberty,  and  alone  now  she 
applied  at  the  door  of  Martial  Mazurier  for  admittance, 
but  in  vain.  The  master  had  signified  that  his  evening 
was  not  to  be  interrupted.  Therefore  she  returned,  from 
ii  P 


242  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

waiting  near  his  door,  to  the  street  where  she  and  Elsie 
lived. 

Should  her  woman's  pride  have  led  her  to  her  lofty  lodg- 
ing, and  kept  her  there  without  a  sign,  till  Victor  himself 
came  seeking  her  ?  She  knew  nothing  of  such  pride,  — 
but  much  of  love  ;  and  her  love  took  her  back  to  the  post 
where  she  had  waited  many  an  hour  since  that  disastrous 
arrest ;  she  would  wait  there  till  morning  if  she  must,  —  at 
least,  till  one  should  enter,  or  come  forth,  who  might  tell 
her  of  Victor  Le  Roy. 

The  light  in  the  preacher's  study  she  could  see  from  the 
door-step  in  a  court-yard  where  she  waited.  Should  Mazu- 
rier  come  with  Victor,  she  would  let  them  pass;  but  if 
Victor  came  alone,  she  had  a  right  to  speak. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  the  student  came  down  from 
the  preacher's  study.  She  heard  his  voice  when  the  door 
opened,  —  by  the  street-lamp  saw  his  face.  And  she  recog- 
nized also  the  voice  of  Mazurier,  who,  till  the  last  moment 
of  separation,  seemed  endeavoring  to  dissuade  his  friend 
from  leaving  him  that  night. 

He  heard  footsteps  following  him,  as  he  passed  along  the 
pavement, — observed  that  they  gained  on  him.  And  could 
it  be  any  other  than  Jacqueline  who  touched  his  arm,  and 
whispered,  "Victor"? 

His  fast-beating  heart  told  him  it  was  she.  He  took  her 
hand,  and  drew  it  within  his  arm,  and  looked  upon  her 
face,  — 'the  face  of  his  Jacqueline. 

"  Now  where  ? "  said  he.  "It  is  late.  It  is  after  mid- 
night. Why  are  you  alone  in  the  street  ?  " 

"  Waiting  for  you,  Victor.  I  heard  you  were  at  liberty, 
and  I  supposed  you  were  with  him.  I  was  safe." 

"Yes,  for  you  fear  nothing.  That  is  the  only  reason. 
You  knew  I  was  with  the  preacher,  Jacqueline.  Why? 
Because  —  because  I  am  with  him,  of  course." 

"  Yes,"  she  said.     "  I  heard  it  was  so,  Victor." 

"  Strange  !  —  strange  !  —  is  it  not  ?  A  prison  is  a  better 
place  to  learn  the  truth  than  the  pure  air  of  liberty,  it 
seems,"  said  he,  bitterly. 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  243 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  she  asked.  She  seemed  not  to  under- 
stand his  meaning. 

"  Nothing.  I  am  acquitted  of  heresy,  you  know.  It 
seems,  what  we  talked  so  bravely  meant  —  nothing.  O,  I 
am  safe  now  ! " 

"It  was  to  preach  none  the  less,  to  hold  the  truth  none 
the  less.  But  if  he  lost  his  life,  there  was  an  end  of  all ; 
or  if  he  lost  his  liberty,  it  was  as  bad.  But  he  would  keep 
both,  and  serve  God  so,"  said  Jacqueline. 

"  Yes,"  cried  Victor,  "  precisely  what  he  said.  I  have 
said  the  same,  you  think  ? " 

"  If  you  are  quite  clear  that  Leclerc  and  the  rest  of  us 
are  all  wrong,  Victor." 

"Jacqueline!" 

"What  is  it,  Victor?" 

" '  The  rest  of  us,'  you  say.  What  would  you  have  done 
in  my  place  ?  " 

"  God  knows.     I  pretend  not  to  know  anything  more." 

"  Bui  '  the  rest  of  us,'  you  said.  You  think  that  you  at 
least  are  with  Leclerc?" 

"That  was  the  truth  you  taught  me,  Victor.  But — I 
have  not  yet  been  tried." 

"That  is  safe  to  say.  What  makes  you  speak  so  pru- 
dently, Jacqueline  ?  Why  do  you  not  declare,  *  Though  all 
men  deny  Thee,  yet  will  I  never  deny  Thee'?  Ah,  you 
have  not  been  tried !  You  are  not  yet  in  danger  of  the 
judgment,  Jacqueline  ! " 

"Do  not  speak  so  ;  you  frighten  me  ;  it  is  not  like  you. 
How  can  I  tell?  I  do  not  know  but  in  this  retirement, 
in  this  thought  you  have  been  compelled  to,  you  have 
obtained  more  light  than  any  one  can  have  until  he  comes 
to  just  such  a  place." 

"Ah,  Jacqueline,  why  not  say  to  me  what  you  are  think- 
ing ?  Have  you  lost  your  courage  ?  Say,  *  Thou  hast  not 
lied  unto  men,  but  unto  God.'" 

"No,  — oh,  no  !  How  could  I  say  it,  my  poor  Victor? 
How  do  you  know?" 


244  Victor  and  Jacqueline. 

"  Surely  you  cannot  know,  as  you  say.  But  from  where 
you  stand,  that  is  what  you  are  thinking.  Jacqueline,  con- 
fess !  If  you  should  speak  your  mind,  it  would  be,  *  Thou 
hast  not  lied  unto  men,  but  unto  God,  poor  coward  ! '  O, 
Jacqueline,  Mazurier  may  deceive  himself!  I  speak  not 
for  him ;  but  what  will  you  do  with  your  poor  Victor,  my 
poor  Jacqueline?" 

She  did  not  linger  in  the  answer,  —  she  did  not  sob  or 
tremble,  —  he  was  by  her  side. 

"Love  him  to  the  end.  As  He,  when  He  loved  His 
own." 

"  Your  own,  poor  girl  ?     No,  no  !  " 

"  You  gave  yourself  to  me,"  she  answered  straightway, 
with  resolute  firmness  clinging  to  the  all  she  had. 

"  I  was  a  man  then,"  he  answered.  "  But  I  will  never 
give  a  liar  and  a  coward  to  Jacqueline  Gabrie.  Everything 
but  myself,  Jacqueline !  Take  the  old  words  and  the  old 
memory.  But  for  this  outcast,  him  you  shall  forget.  My 
God  !  thou  hast  not  brought  this  brave  girl  from  Domre'my, 
and  lighted  her  heart  with  a  coal  from  Thine  altar,  that  she 
should  turn  from  Thee  to  me  !  If  you  love  a  liar  and  a 
coward,  Jacqueline,  you  cannot  help  yourself,  —  he  will 
make  you  one,  too.  And  what  I  loved  you  for  was  your 
truth  and  purity  and  courage.  I  have  given  you  a  treasure 
which  was  greater  than  I  could  keep.  Where  is  it  that  you 
live  now,  Jacqueline  ?  I  am  not  yet  such  a  poltroon  that  I 
am  afrard  to  conduct  you.  I  think  that  I  should  have  the 
courage  to  protect  you  to-night,  if  you  were  in  any  im- 
mediate danger.  Come,  lead  the  way." 

"  No,"  said  Jacqueline.  "  I  am  not  going  home.  I  could 
not  sleep ;  and  a  roof  over  my  head  —  any  save  God's 
heaven  —  would  suffocate  me,  I  believe." 

"  Go,  then,  as  you  will.     But  where  ?  " 

Jacqueline  did  not  answer,  but  walked  quietly  on ;  and 
so  they  passed  beyond  the  city-borders  to  the  river-bank, 
—  far  away  into  the  country,  through  the  fields,  under  the 
light  of  stars  and  of  the  waning  moon. 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  245 

"If  I  had  been  true!"  said  Victor,  — "if  I  had  not 
listened  to  him  !  But  him  I  will  not  blame.  For  why 
should  I  blame  him  ?  Am  I  an  idiot  ?  And  his  influence 
could  not  have  prevailed,  had  I  not  so  chosen,  when  I  stood 
before  my  judges  and  they  questioned  me.  No,  —  I  acquit 
Mazurier.  Perhaps  what  I  have  denied  never  appeared  to 
him  so  glorious  as  it  did  once  to  me  ;  and  so  he  was  guilt- 
less at  least  of  knowing  what  it  was  I  did.  But  I  knew. 
And  I  could  not  have  been  deceived  for  a  moment.  No, — 
I  think  it  impossible  that  for  a  moment  I  should  have  been 
deceived.  They  would  have  made  a  notable  example  of 
me,  Jacqueline.  I  am  rich,  —  I  am  a  student.  O,  yes  ! 
Jesus  Christ  may  die  for  me,  and  I  accept  the  benefit ;  but 
when  it  comes  to  suffering  for  His  sake,  —  you  could  not 
have  expected  that  of  such  a  poltroon,  Jacqueline !  We 
may  look  for  it  in  brave  men  like  Leclerc,  whose  very  living 
depends  on  their  ability  to  earn  their  bread,  —  to  earn  it  by 
daily  sweat ;  but  men  who  need  not  toil,  who  have  leisure 
and  education,  —  of  course  you  would  not  expect  such  testi- 
mony to  the  truth  of  Jesus  from  them  !  Bishop  Briconnet 
recants, — and  Martial  Mazurier  ;  and  Victor  Le  Roy  is  no 
braver  man,  no  truer  man  than  these  ! " 

With  bitter  shame  and  self-scorning  he  spoke.  Poor 
Jacqueline  had  not  a  word  to  say.  She  sat  beside  him. 
She  would  help  him  bear  his  cross.  Heavy-laden  as  he, 
she  awaited  the  future,  saying,  in  the  silence  of  her  spirit's 
dismal  solitude,  "  O,  teach  us  !  O,  help  us  ! "  But  she 
called  not  on  any  name ;  her  prayer  went  out  in  search  of 
a  God  whom  in  that  hour  she  knew  not.  The  dark  cloud 
and  shadow  of  Satan  that  overshadowed  him  was  also 
upon  her. 

"  Mazurier  is  coming  in  the  morning  to  take  me  with 
him,  Jacqueline,"  said  Victor.  "We  are  to  make  a  journey." 

"  What  is  it,  Victor  ?  "  she  asked,  quietly. 

There  was  nothing  left  for  her  but  patience,  —  that  she 
clearly  saw,  —  nothing  but  patience,  and  quiet  enduring  of 
the  will  of  God. 


246  Victor  and  Jacqtieline. 

"  He  is  afraid  of  me,  —  or  of  himself,  —  or  of  both,  I 
believe.  He  thinks  a  change  of  scene  would  be  good  for 
both  of  us,  poor  lepers  that  we  are." 

"  I  must  go  with  you,  Victor  Le  Roy,"  said  the  resolute 
Jacqueline. 

"Wherefore?"  asked  he. 

"Because,  when  you  were  strong  and  happy,  that  was 
your  desire,  Victor ;  and  now  that  you  are  sick  and  sorrow- 
ing, I  will  not  give  you  to  another :  no  !  not  to  Mazurier, 
nor  to  any  one  that  breathes,  except  myself,  to  whom  you 
belong." 

"  I  must  stay  here  in  Meaux,  then  ?  " 

"  That  depends  upon  yourself,  Victor." 

"We  were  to  have  been  married.  We  were  going  to 
look  after  our  estate,  now  that  the  hard  summer  and  the 
hard  years  of  work  are  ended." 

"Yes,  Victor,  it  was  so." 

"  But  I  will  not  wrong  you.  You  were  to  be  the  wife  of 
Victor  Le  Roy.  You  are  his  widow,  Jacqueline.  For  you 
do  not  think  that  he  lives  any  longer  ?  " 

"  He  lives,  and  he  is  free  !  If  he  has  sinned,  like  Peter 
even,  he  weeps  bitterly." 

"  Like  Peter  ?  Peter  denied  his  Lord.  But  he  did  weep, 
as  you  say,  —  bitterly.  Peter  confessed  again." 

"  And  none  served  the  Master  with  truer  heart  or  greater 
courage  afterward.  Victor,  you  remember." 

"  Even  so,  —  O,  Jacqueline  !  " 

"  Victor !  Victor  !  it  was  only  Judas  who  hanged  himself." 

"  Come,  Jacqueline  !  " 

She  arose  and  went  with  him.  At  dawn  they  were 
married.  Love  did  lead  and  save  them. 

I  see  two  youthful  students  studying  one  page.  I  see 
two  loving  spirits  walking  through  thick  darkness.  Along 
the  horizon  flicker  the  promises  of  day.  They  say,  "O 
Holy  Ghost,  hast  thou  forsaken  thine  own  temples  ?  "  Aloud 
they  cry  to  God. 


Victor  and  Jacqueline.  247 

I  see  them  Wandering  among  Domr&ny  woods  and  mead- 
ows, —  around  the  castle  of  Picardy,  —  talking  of  Joan.  I 
see  them  resting  by  the  graves  they  find  in  two  ancient 
villages.  I  see  them  walk  in  sunny  places ;  they  are  not 
called  to  toil :  they  may  gather  all  the  blossoms  that  delight 
their  eyes.  Their  love  grows  beyond  childhood,  —  does 
not  die  before  it  comes  to  love's  best  estate.  Happy  bride 
and  bridegroom  !  But  I  see  them  as  through  a  cloud  whose 
fair  hues  are  transient. 

From  the  meadow-lands  and  the  vineyards  and  the  dark 
forests  of  the  mountains,  from  study  and  from  rest,  I  see 
them  move  with  solemn  faces  and  calm  steps.  Brave  lights 
are  in  their  eyes,  and  flowers  that  are  immortal  they  carry 
in  their  hands.  No  distillation  can  exhaust  the  fragrance 
of  those  blooms. 

What  dost  thou  here,  Victor?  What  dost  thou  here, 
Jacqueline  ? 

This  is  the  place  of  prisons.  Here  they  light  again,  as 
they  have  often  lighted,  torch  and  fagot ;  —  life  must  pay 
the  cost !  Angry  crowds  and  hooting  multitudes  love  this 
dreary  square.  O,  Jacqueline  and  Victor,  what  is  this  I 
behold? 

They  come  together  from  their  prison,  hand  in  hand. 
"  The  testimony  of  Jesus  !  "  Stand  back,  Mazurier  !  Retire, 
Briconnet !  Here  is  not  your  place,  —  this  is  not  your  hour  ! 
Yet  here  incendiaries  fire  the  temples  of  the  Holy  Ghost ! 

The  judges  do  not  now  congratulate.  Jacqueline  waits 
not  now  at  midnight  for  the  coming  of  Le  Roy.  Bride  and 
bridegroom,  there  they  stand ;  they  face  the  world  to  give 
their  testimony. 

And  a  woman's  voice,  almost  I  deem  the  voice  of  Elsie 
Meril,  echoes  the  mother's  cry  that  followed  John  Leclerc 
when  he  fought  the  beasts  at  Meaux,  — 

"  Blessed  be  Jesus  Christ,  and  His  witnesses." 

So  of  the  Truth  were  they  borne  up  that  day  in  a  blazing 
chariot  to  meet  their  Lord  in  the  air,  to  be  forever  with 
their  Lord. 


ELKANAH    BREWSTER'S   TEMPTATION. 


WAS  always  of  opinion  that  the  fruit  forbidden 
to  our  grandmother  Eve  was  an  unripe  apple. 
Eaten,  it  afflicted  Adam  with  the  first  colic  known 
to  this  planet.  He,  the  weaker  vessel,  sorrowed  over  his  trans- 
gression ;  but  I  doubt  if  Eve's  repentance  was  thorough  ; 
for  the  plucking  of  unripe  fruit  has  been,  ever  since,  a 
favorite  hobby  of  her  sons  and  daughters,  —  until  now  our 
mankind  has  got  itself  into  such  a  chronic  state  of  colic, 
that  even  Dr.  Carlyle  declare*  himself  unable  to  prescribe 
any  Morrison's  Pill  or  other  remedial  measure  to  allay  the 
irritation. 

Part  of  this  irritation  finds  vent  in  a  great  cry  about 
"  legitimate  ambition."  Somehow,  because  any  American 
may  be  President  of  the  United  States,  almost  every  Ameri- 
can feels  himself  bound  to  run  for  the  office.  A  man  thinks 
small  things  of  himself,  and  his  neighbors  think  less,  if  he 
does  not  find  his  heart  filled  with  an  insane  desire,  in  some 
way,  to  attain  to  fame  or  notoriety,  riches  or  bankruptcy. 
Nevertheless,  we  are  not  purse-proud,  —  nor,  indeed,  proud 
at  all,  more  's  the  pity,  —  and  receive  a  man  just  as  readily 
whose  sands  of  life  have  been  doled  out  to  suffering  hu- 
manity in  the  shape  of  patent  pills,  as  one  who  has  entered 
Fifth  Avenue  by  the  legitimate  way  of  pork  and  cotton 
speculations,  if  only  he  have  been  successful,  —  which  I 
call  a  very  noble  trait  in  the  American  character. 

Now  this  is  all  very  well,  and,  granted  that  Providence 
has  placed  us  here  to  do  what  is  best  pleasing  to  ourselves, 


Elkanah  Brewster  s  Temptation.          249 

it  is  surely  very  noble  and  grand  in  us  to  please  to  serve 
nothing  less  than  our  country  or  our  age.  But  let  us  not 
forget  that  the  English  language  has  such  a  little  word  as 
duty.  A  man's  talents,  and,  perhaps,  once  in  a  great  while, 
his  wishes,  would  make  him  a  great  man  (if  wishes  ever 
did  such  things,  which  I  doubt),  while  duty  imperatively 
demands  that  he  shall  remain  a  little  man.  What  then  ? 
Let  us  see. 

Elkanah  Brewster  was  going  to  New  York  to-morrow. 

"What  for,  boy?"  asked  ol.d  Uncle  Shubael,  meeting 
whom  on  the  fish-wharf,  he  had  bid  him  a  cheery  good-bye. 

"  To  make  my  fortune,"  was  the  bold  reply. 

"  Make  yer  fortin  ?  You  're  a  goose,  boy  !  Stick  to  yer 
work  here,  —  fishin'  summers  an'  shoemakin'  winters.  Why, 
there  is  n't  a  young  feller  on  the  hull  Cape  makes  as  much 
as  you.  What 's  up  ?  Gal  gin  ye  the  mitten  ?  Or  what  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  make  shoes,  nor  fish  neither,  Uncle 
Shub,"  said  Elkanah,  soberly,  looking  the  old  fellow  in  the 
face,  —  "  goin'  down  to  the  Banks  year  arter  year  in  cold 
an'  fish-gurry,  an'  peggin'  away  all  winter,  like  mad.  I 
want  to  be  rich,  like  Captain  Crowell ;  I  want  to  be  a 
gentleman,  like  that  painter-chap  that  give  me  drawin'- 
lessons,  last  summer,  when  I  stayed  to  home." 

"  Phew  !  Want  to  be  rich  an'  a  gentleman,  eh  ?  Gittin' 
tu  big  for  yer  boots,  youngster  ?  What 's  yer  old  man  du 
but  go  down  t'  the  Banks  reg'lar  every  spring  ?  You  're 
no  better  'n  he,  I  guess  !  Keep  yer  trade,  an'  yer  trade  '11 
keep  you.  A  rollin'  stun  gethers  no  moss.  Dry  bread  tu 
home 's  better  'n  roast  meat  an'  gravy  abroad." 

"All  feet  don't  tread  in  one  shoe,  Uncle  Shub,"  said 
young  Brewster,  capping  the  old  fellow's  proverbs  with 
another.  "  Don't  see  why  I  should  n't  make  money  as 
well 's  other  fellers.  It 's  a  free  country,  an'  if  a  feller  wants 
to  try  suthin'  else  'sides  fishin'  uv  it,  what  d'yer  all  want  to 
be  down  on  him  fur  ?  I  don't  want  to  slave  all  my  days, 
when  other  folks  ken  live  in  big  houses  an'  ride  in  'ker- 
riges,  an'  all  that." 
n* 


250          Elkanah  Brewsters  Temptation. 

"  A'n't  yer  got  bread  enough  to  eat,  an'  a  place  to  sleep  ? 
an'  what  more's  any  on  'em.  got  ?  You  stay  here  ;  make 
yer  money  on  the  old  Cape,  where  yer  father  an'  grand'ther 
made  it  afore  you.  Use  yer  means,  an'  God  '11  give  the 
blessin'.  Yer  can't  honestly  git  rich  anywheres  all  tu  once. 
Good  an'  quickly  don't  often  meet.  One  nail  drives  out 
another.  Slow  an'  easy  goes  fur  in  a  day.  Honor  an'  ease 
a'n't  often  bedfellows.  Don't  yer  be  a  goose,  I  tell  ye. 
What 's  to  become  of  Hepsy  Ann  ?  " 

Having  delivered  himself  of  which  last  and  hardest  shot, 
Uncle  Shubael  shouldered  his  cod-craft,  and,  without  await- 
ing an  answer,  tugged  across  the  sand-beach  for  home. 

Elkanah  Brewster  was  a  Cape-Cod  boy,  with  a  pedigree, 
if  he  had  ever  thought  of  it,  as  long  as  any  on  the  Cape,  — 
and  they  are  the  longest  in  the  land.  His  forefathers  had 
caught  fish  to  the  remotest  generation  known.  The  Cape 
boys  take  to  the  water  like  young  ducks  ;  and  are  born 
with  a  hook  and  line  in  their  fists,  so  to  speak,  as  the 
Newfoundland  codfish  and  Bay  Chaleur  mackerel  know, 
to  their  cost.  "  Down  on  old  Chatham "  there  is  little 
question  of  a  boy's  calling,  if  he  only  comes  into  the  world 
with  the  proper  number  of  fingers  and  toes ;  he  swims  as 
soon  as  he  walks,  knows  how  to  drive  a  bargain  as  soon 
as  he  can  talk,  goes  cook  of  a  coaster  at  the  mature  age 
of  eight  years,  and  thinks  himself  robbed  of  his  birthright, 
if  he  has  not  made  a  voyage  to  the  Banks  before  his 
eleventh  birthday  comes  round.  There  is  good  stuff  in 
the  Cape  boys,  as  the  South-Street  ship-owners  know,  who 
don't  sleep  easier  than  when  they  have  put  a  "  Cape  man  " 
in  charge  of  their  best  clipper.  Quick  of  apprehension, 
fertile  in  resource,  shrewd,  enterprising,  brave,  prudent,  and 
above  all,  lucky,  —  no  better  seamen  sail  the  sea.  Long 
may  they  keep  their  prestige  and  their  sand  ! 

They  are  not  rich  on  the  Cape,  —  in  the  Wall-Street 
sense  of  the  word,  that  is  to  say.  I  doubt  if  Uncle  Lew 
Baker,  who  was  high  line  out  of  Dennis  last  year,  and  who, 
by  the  same  token,  had  to  work  himself  right  smartly  to 


Elkanah  Brewsters  Temptation.          251 

achieve  that  honor,  —  I  doubt  if  this  smart  and  thoroughly 
wide-awake  fellow  took  home  more  than  three  hundred 
dollars  to  his  wife  and  children  when  old  Obed  settled  the 
voyage.  But  then  the  good  wife  saves  while  he  earns,  and, 
what  with  a  cow,  and  a  house  and  garden-spot  of  his  own, 
and  a  healthy  lot  of  boys  and  girls,  who,  if  too  young  to 
help,  are  not  suffered  to  hinder,  this  man  is  more  fore- 
handed and  independent,  gives  more  to  the  poor  about  him 
and  to  the  heathen  at  the  other  end  of  the  world,  than 
many  a  city  man  who  makes,  and  spends,  his  tens  of 
thousands. 

Uncle  Abijah  Brewster,  the  father  of  this  Elkanah,  was 
an  old  Banker,  —  which  signifies  here,  not  a  Wall-Street 
broker-man,  but  a  Grand-Bank  fisherman.  He  had  brought 
up  a  goodly  family  of  boys  and  girls  by  his  hook  and  line, 
and,  though  now  a  man  of  some  fifty  winters,  still  made 
his  two  yearly  fares  to  the  Banks,  in  his  own  trim  little 
pinky,  and  prided  himself  on  being  the  smartest  and  jol- 
liest  man  aboard.  His  boys  had  sailed  with  him  till  they 
got  vessels  of  their  own,  had  learned  from  his  stout  heart 
and  strong  arm  their  seamanship,  their  fisherman's  acute- 
ness,  their  honest  daring,  and  childlike  trust  in  God's 
Providence.  These  poor  fishermen  are  not  rich,  as  I  have 
said  ;  a  dollar  looks  to  them  as  big  as  a  dinner-plate  to  us, 
and  a  moderately  flush  Wall-Street  man  might  buy  out  the 
whole  Cape,  and  not  overdraw  his  bank-account.  Also, 
they  have  but  little  book-learning  among  them,  reading 
chiefly  their  Bible,  Bowditch,  and  Nautical  Almanac,  and 
leaving  theology  mostly  to  the  parson,  on  shore,  who  is 
paid  for  it.  But  they  have  a  conscience,  and,  knowing  a 
thing  to  be  right,  do  it  bravely,  and  against  all  odds.  I 
have  seen  these  men  on  Sunday,  in  a  fleet  of  busy  "  Sun- 
day fishers,"  fish  biting  all  around  them,  sitting  faithfully, 
—  ay,  and  contentedly,  —  with  book  in  hand,  sturdily  re- 
fraining from  what  the  mere  human  instinct  of  destruction 
would  strongly  impel  them  to,  without  counting  the  tempta- 
tion of  dollars,  —  and  this  only  because  they  had  been 


252          Elkanah  Brews  ters  Temptation. 

taught  that  Sunday  was  a  day  of  rest  and  worship,  wherein 
no  man  should  catch  fish,  and  knew  no  theological  quibble 
or  mercantile  close-sailing  by  which  to  weather  on  God's 
command.  It  sounds  little  to  us  who  have  not  been 
tempted,  or,  if  tempted,  have  gracefully  succumbed,  on  the 
plea  that  other  people  do  so  too;  but  how  many  stock- 
speculators  would  see  their  fellows  buying  bargains  and 
making  easy  fortunes  on  Sunday  morning,  and  not  forget 
the  ring  of  Trinity  chimes  and  go  in  for  dollars  ?  Or  which 
of  us  denies  himself  his  Monday  morning's  paper  ? 

Elkanah  had  always  been  what  his  mother  called  a 
strange  boy.  He  was,  indeed,  an  odd  sheep  in  her  flock. 
Restless,  ambitious,  dreamy,  from  his  earliest  youth,  he 
possessed,  besides,  a  natural  gift  for  drawing  and  sketching, 
imitating  and  constructing,  that  bade  fair,  unless  properly 
directed,  to  make  of  him  that  saddest  and  most  useless  of 
human  lumber,  a  jack-at-all-trades.  He  profited  more  by 
his  limited  winter's  schooling  than  his  brothers  and  fellows, 
and  was  always  respected  by  the  old  man  as  "  a  boy  that 
took  naterally  to  book-larnin',  and  would  be  suthin'  some 
day."  Of  course  he  went  to  the  Banks,  and  acquitted  him- 
self there  with  honor,  —  no  man  fishing  more  zealously  or 
having  better  luck.  But  all  the  time  he  was  dreaming  of 
his  future,  counting  this  present  as  nothing,  and  ready,  as 
soon  as  Fortune  should  make  him  an  opening,  to  cast  away 
this  life,  and  grasp  —  he  had  not  settled  what. 

"  /  dun  know  what  ails  him,"  said  his  father ;  "  but  he 
don't  take  kindly  to  the  Banks.  Seems  to  me  he  kinder 
despises  the  work,  though  he  does  it  well  enough.  And 
then  he  makes  the  best  shoes  on  the  Cape ;  but  he  a'n't 
content,  somehow." 

And  that  was  just  it.  He  was  not  contented.  He  had 
seen  men  —  "  no  better  than  I,"  thought  he,  poor  fool !  — 
in  Boston,  living  in  big  houses,  wearing  fine  clothes,  putting 
fair,  soft  hands  into  smooth-fitting  kid-gloves;  "and  why 
not  I  ? "  he  cried  to  himself  continually.  Year  by  year, 
from  his  seventeenth  to  his  twenty-first,  he  was  pursued  by 


Elkanah  Brewsters  Temptation.          253 

this  demon  of  "  ambition,"  which  so  took  possession  of  his 
heart  as  to  crowd  out  nearly  everything  else,  —  father, 
mother,  work,  —  even  pretty  Hepzibah  Nickerson,  almost, 
who  loved  him,  and  whom  he  also  loved  truly.  They  had 
almost  grown-up  together,  had  long  loved  each  other,  and 
had  been  now  two  years  betrothed.  When  Elkanah  was 
out  of  his  time  and  able  to  buy  a  share  in  a  vessel,  and 
had  made  a  voyage  to  the  Banks  as  captain,  they  were  to  be 
married. 

The  summer  before  this  spring  in  which  our  story  opens, 
Elkanah  had  stayed  at  home  for  two  months,  because  of  a 
rheumatism  contracted  by  unusual  exposure  on  the  Banks 
in  early  spring  ;  and  at  this  time  he  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Mr.  James  Graves,  N.  A.,  from  New  York,  spending 
part  of  his  summer  on  the  Cape  in  search  of  the  pictu- 
resque, —  which  I  hope  he  found.  Elkanah  had,  as  I  have 
said,  a  natural  talent  for  drawing,  and  some  of  his  sketches 
had  that  in  them  which  elicited  the  approval  of  Graves, 
who  saw  in  the  young  fellow  an  untutored  genius,  or,  at 
least,  very  considerable  promise  of  future  excellence.  To 
him  there  could  be  but  one  choice  between  shoemaking 
and  "  Art "  ;  and  finding  that  young  Brewster  made  rapid 
advances  under  his  desultory  tuition,  he  told  him  his 
thoughts,  that  he  should  not  waste  himself  making  sea- 
boots  for  fishermen,  but  enter  a  studio  in  Boston  or  New 
York,  and  make  his  career  as  a  painter.  It  scarcely  needed 
this,  however  ;  for  Elkanah  took  such  delight  in  his  new 
proficiency,  and  got  from  Graves's  stories  of  artist  life  such 
exalted  ideas  of  the  unalloyed  felicity  of  the  gentleman  of 
the  brush,  that,  even  had  the  painter  said  no  word,  he 
would  have  worked  out  that  way  himself. 

"  Only  wait  till  next  year,  when  I  'm  out  of  my  time," 
said  he  to  Graves  ;  and  to  himself,  —  "  This  is  the  opening 
for  which  I  have  been  waiting." 

That  winter  —  "my  last  at  shoemaking "  —  he  worked 
more  diligently  than  ever  before,  and  more  good-naturedly. 
Uncle  Abijah  was  delighted  at  the  change  in  his  boy,  and 


254          Elkanah  Brews  ters  Temptation. 

promised  him  great  things  in  the  way  of  a  lift  next  year, 
to  help  him  to  a  speedy  wedding.  Elkanah  kept  his  own 
counsel,  read  much  in  certain  books  which  Graves  had  left 
him,  and  looked  impatiently  ahead  to  the  day  when,  twenty- 
one  years  of  age,  he  should  be  a  free  man,  —  able  to  go 
whither  he  listed  and  do  what  he  would,  with  no  man 
authoritatively  to  say  him  nay. 

And  now  the  day  had  come  ;  and  with  I  don't  know  how 
few  dollars  in  his  pocket,  his  scant  earnings,  he  had  de- 
clared to  his  astounded  parents  his  determination  to  fish 
and  shoemake  no  longer,  but  to  learn  to  be  a  painter. 

"  A  great  painter,"  —  that  was  what  he  said. 

"  I  don't  see  the  use  o'  paintin'  picters,  for  my  part,"  said 
the  old  man,  despairingly ;  "  can't  you  learn  that,  an' 
fish  tu  ?  " 

"  Famous  and  rich  too,"  said  Elkanah  half  to  himself, 
looking  through  the  vista  of  years  at  the  result  he  hoped 
for,  and  congratulating  himself  in  advance  upon  it.  And 
a  proud,  hard  look  settled  in  his  eye,  which  froze  the  op- 
position of  father  and  mother,  and  was  hardly  dimmed 
by  encountering  the  grieved  glance  of  poor  Hepsy  Ann 
Nickerson. 

Poor  Hepsy  Ann  !  They  had  talked  it  all  over,  time  and 
again.  At  first  she  was  in  despair  ;  but  when  he  laid  be- 
fore her  all  his  darling  hopes,  and  painted  for  her  in  such 
glowing  colors  the  final  reward  which  should  come  to  him 
and  her  in  return  for  his  struggles,  —  when  she  saw  him, 
her  love  and  pride,  before  her  already  transfigured,  as  it 
were,  by  this  rare  triumph,  clothed  in  honors,  his  name  in 
all  mouths,  —  dear,  loving  soul,  her  heart  consented,  "  ay, 
if  it  should  break  meantime,"  thought  she,  as  she  looked 
proudly  on  him  through  her  tears,  and  said,  — "  Go,  in 
God's  name,  and  God  be  with  you  !  " 

Perhaps  we  might  properly  here  consider  a  little  whether 
this  young  man  did  well  thus  to  leave  father,  mother,  home, 
his  promised  bride,  sufficient  bread-and-butter,  healthy  oc- 
cupation, all,  to  attempt  life  in  a  new  direction.  Of  course, 


Elkdnah  Brewster's  Temptation.          255 

your  man  who  lives  by  bread  alone  will  "  pooh  !  pooh  ! w 
all  such  folly,  and  tell  the  young  man  to  let  well  enough 
alone.  But  consider  candidly,  and  decide  :  Should  Elkanah 
have  gone  to  New  York  ? 

On  the  whole,  7  think,  yes.     For,  — 

He  had  a  certain  talent,  and  gave  good  promise  of  excel- 
lence in  his  chosen  profession. 

He  liked  it,  felt  strongly  impelled  towards  it.  Let  us  not 
yet  scrutinize  too  closely  the  main  impelling  forces.  Few 
human  actions  originate  solely  in  what  we  try  to  think  the 
most  exalted  motives. 

He  would  have  been  discontented  for  life,  had  he  not  had 
his  way.  And  this  should  count  for  something,  —  for  much, 
indeed.  Give  our  boys  liberty  to  try  that  to  which  their 
nature  or  fancy  strongly  drives  them,  —  to  burn  their  fingers, 
if  that  seem  best. 

Let  him  go,  then  ;  and  God  be  with  him  !  as  surely  He 
will  be,  if  the  simple,  faithful  prayers  of  fair,  sad  Hepsy 
Ann  are  heard.  Thus  will  he,  thus  only  can  any,  solve  that 
sphinx-riddle  of  life  which  is  propounded  to  each  passer 
to-day,  as  of  old  in  fable-lands,  —  failing  to  read  which,  he 
dies  the  death  of  rusting  discontent,  —  solving  whose  mys- 
teries, he  has  revealed  to  him  the  deep  secret  of  his  life, 
and  sees  and  knows  what  best  he  may  do  here  for  himself 
and  the  world. 

But  what,  where,  who,  is  Elkanah  Brewster's  world? 

While  we  stand  reasoning,  he  has  gone.  In  New  York, 
his  friend  Graves  assisted  him  to  a  place  in  the  studio  of 
an  artist,  whose  own  works  have  proved,  no  less  than  those 
of  many  who  have  gathered  their  most  precious  lessons 
from  him,  that  he  is  truly  a  master  of  his  art.  But  what 
are  masters,  teachers,  to  a  scholar?  It's  very  fine  board- 
ing at  the  Spread-Eagle  Hotel ;  but  even  after  you  have 
feed  the  waiter,  you  have  to  chew  your  own  dinner,  and  are 
benefited,  not  by  the  amount  you  pay  for  it,  but  only  by  so 
much  of  all  that  with  which  the  bounteous  mahogany  is 
covered  as  you  can  thoroughly  masticate,  easily  contain, 


256          Elkanah  Brewsters  Temptation. 

and  healthily  digest.  Elkanah  began  with  the  soup,  so  to 
speak.  He  brought  all  his  Cape- Cod  acuteness  of  observa- 
tion to  bear  on  his  profession ;  lived  closely,  as  well  he 
might ;  studied  attentively  and  intelligently ;  lost  no  hints, 
no  precious  morsels  dropping  from  the  master's  board; 
improved  slowly,  but  surely.  Day  by  day  he  gained  in  that 
facility  of  hand,  quickness  of  observation,  accuracy  of 
memory,  correctness  of  judgment,  patience  of  detail,  felicity 
of  touch,  which,  united  and  perfected  and  honestly  directed, 
we  call  genius.  He  was  above  no  drudgery,  shirked  no 
difficulties,  and  labored  at  the  insignificant  sketch  in  hand 
to-day  as  though  it  were  indeed  his  masterpiece,  to  be  hung 
up  beside  Raphael's  and  Titian's ;  meantime,  keeping  up 
poor  Hepsy  Ann's  heart  by  letters  full  of  a  hope  bred  of 
his  own  brave  spirit,  rather  than  of  any  favoring  circum- 
stances in  his  life,  and  gaining  his  scant  bread-and-butter 
by  various  honest  drudgeries  which  I  will  not  here  recount. 

So  passed  away  three  years ;  for  the  growth  of  a  poor 
young  artist  in  public  favor,  and  that  thing  called  fame,  is 
fearfully  slow.  Oftenest  he  has  achieved  his  best  when  the 
first  critic  speaks  kindly  or  savagely  of  him.  What,  indeed, 
at  best,  do  those  blind  leaders,  but  zealously  echo  a  senti- 
ment already  in  the  public  heart,  —  which  they  vainly 
endeavor  to  create  (out  of  nothing)  by  any  awe-inspiring 
formula  of  big  words  ? 

Men  grow  so  slowly !  But  then  so  do  oaks.  And  little 
matter,  so  the  growth  be  straight. 

Meantime  Elkanah  was  getting,  slowly  and  by  hardest 
labor,  to  have  some  true  conception  of  his  art  and  his  aims. 
He  became  less  and  less  satisfied  with  his  own  perform- 
ances ;  and,  having  with  much  pains  and  anxious  prayers 
finished  his  first  picture  for  the  Academy,  carefully  hid  it 
under  the  bed,  and  for  that  year  played  the  part  of  inde- 
pendent critic  at  the  Exhibition.  Wherefrom  resulted  some 
increase  of  knowledge,  —  though  chiefly  negative. 

For  what  positive  lesson  is  taught  to  any  by  that  yearly 
show  of  what  we  flatter  ourselves  by  calling  Art?  Eight 


Elkanah  Brews  ters  Temptation.          257 

hundred  and  fifteen  new  paintings  this  year,  shown  by  no 
less  than  two  hundred  and  eighty-one  painters.  When  you 
have  gone  patiently  through  and  looked  at  every  picture, 
see  if  you  don't  wish  the  critics  had  eyes,  and  a  little 
common  sense,  too.  How  many  of  these  two  hundred  and 
eighty-one,  if  they  live  to  be  a  hundred,  will  ever  solve  their 
great  riddle  ?  and  once  solved,  how  many  would  honestly 
go  back  to  shoemaking? 

Why  should  they  not  paint  ?  Because,  unless  some  of 
them  are  poorer  men  than  I  think,  that  is  not  the  thing 
they  are  like  to  do  best ;  and  a  man  is  put  into  this  world, 
not  to  do  what  he  may  think  or  hope  will  most  speedily  or 
effectually  place  him  in  the  list  of  this  world's  illustrious 
benefactors,  but  honestly  and  against  all  devilish  tempta- 
tions to  stick  to  that  thing  by  which  he  can  best  serve  and 
bless  — 

Whom  ?    A  city  ?    A  state  ?    A  republic  ?    A  king  ? 

No,  —  but  that  person  who  is  nearest  to,  and  most  de- 
pendent upon  him.  Look  at  Charles  Lamb,  and  then  at 
Byron  and  Shelly. 

The  growth  of  a  poor  young  artist  into  public  favor  is 
slow  enough.  But  even  poor  young  artists  have  their 
temptations.  When  Elkanah  hung  his  first  picture  in  the 
Academy  rooms,  he  thought  the  world  must  feel  the  acqui- 
sition. Now  the  world  is  a  notoriously  stupid  world,  and 
never  does  its  duty  ;  but  kind  woman  not  seldom  supplies  its 
omissions.  So  it  happened,  that,  though  the  world  ignored 
the  picture,  Elkanah  became  at  once  the  centre  of  admira- 
tion to  a  coterie  of  young  ladies,  who  thought  they  were 
appreciating  Art  when  they  flattered  an  artist,  and  who, 
when  they  read  in  the  papers  the  gratifying  intelligence 
(invented  by  some  sanguine  critic,  over  a  small  bottle  of 
Champagne  cider)  that  the  American  people  are  rapidly 
growing  in  true  love  for  the  fine  arts,  blushingly  owned  to 
themselves  that  their  virtuous  labors  in  this  direction  were 
not  going  unrewarded. 

Have  you  never  seen  them  in  the  Academy,  —  these  dear 

Q 


258          Elkanah  Brewsters  Temptation. 

young  ladies,  who  are  so  constantly  foreseeing  new  Ra- 
phaels, Claudes,  and  Rembrandts  ?  Positively,  in  this  year's 
Exhibition  they  are  better  worth  study  than  the  paintings. 
There  they  run,  up  and  down,  critical  or  enthusiastical,  as 
the  humor  strikes:  Laura,  with  big  blue  eyes  and  a  loud 
voice,  pitying  Isidora  because  she  "has  never  met"  that 
dear  Mr.  Herkimer,  who  paints  such  delicious,  dreamy 
landscapes  ;  and  Emily  dragging  everybody  off  to  see  Mr. 
Smith's  great  work,  "  The  Boy  and  the  Windmill,"  which  — 
so  surprising  is  his  facility  —  he  actually  painted  in  less 
than  twelve  days,  and  which  "  promises  so  much  for  his 
success  and  the  future  of  American  Art,"  says  this  sage 
young  critic,  out  of  whose  gray  eyes  look  the  garnered 
experiences  of  almost  eighteen  summers. 

Whoever  desiderates  cheap  praise,  let  him  cultivate  a 
beard  and  a  sleepy  look,  and  hang  a  picture  in  the  Academy 
rooms.  Elkanah  received  it,  you  may  be  sure.  It  was 
thought  so  romantic,  that  he,  a  fisherman,  —  the  young 
ladies  sunk  the  shoemaker,  I  believe,  —  should  be  so  de- 
voted to  Art.  How  splendidly  it  spoke  for  our  civilization, 
when  even  sailors  left  their  vessels,  and  abjuring  codfish, 
took  to  canvas  and  brushes  !  What  admirable  courage  in 
him,  to  come  here  and  endeavor  to  work  his  way  up  from 
the  very  bottom  !  What  praiseworthy  self-denial',  —  "  No  !  ! 
is  it  really  so  ? "  cried  Miss  Jennie,  —  when  he  had  left 
behind  him  a  fair  young  bride ! 

It  was  as  though  it  had  been  written,  "  Blessed  is  he  who 
forsaketh  father,  mother,  and  wife  to  paint  pictures."  But 
it  is  not  so  written. 

It  was  as  if  the  true  aim  and  glory  of  every  man  in  a 
civilized  community  should  be  to  paint  pictures.  Which 
has  this  grain  of  truth  in  it,  that,  in  the  highest  form  of 
human  development,  I  believe  every  man  will  be  at  heart 
an  artist.  But  then  we  shall  be  past  picture-painting  and 
exhibitions.  Don't  you  see,  that,  if  the  fruit  be  thoroughly 
ripe,  it  needs  no  violent  plucking  ?  or  that,  if  a  man  is 
really  a  painter,  he  will  paint,  —  ay,  though  he  were  ten 


Elkanah  Brewsters  Temptation.          259 

times  a  shoemaker,  and  could  never,  never  hope  to  hang 
his  pictures  on  the  Academy  walls,  to  win  cheap  wonder 
from  boarding-school  misses,  or  just  regard  from  judicious 
critics  ? 

Elkanah  Brewster  came  to  New  York  to  make  his  career, 
—  to  win  nothing  less  than  fame  and  fortune.  When  he 
had  struggled  through  five  years  of  Art-study,  and  was 
now  just  beginning  to  earn  a  little  money,  he  began  also  to 
think  that  he  had  somehow  counted  his  chickens  before  they 
were  hatched,  —  perhaps,  indeed,  before  the  eggs  were  laid. 
"  Good  and  quickly  come  seldom  together,"  said  old  Uncle 
Shubael.  But  then  a  man  who  has  courage  commonly  has 
also  endurance  ;  and  Elkanah,  ardently  pursuing  from  love 
now  what  he  had  first  been  prompted  to  by  ambition,  did 
not  murmur  nor  despair.  For,  indeed,  I  must  own  that 
this  young  fellow  had  worked  himself  up  to  the  highest  and 
truest  conception  of  his  art,  and  felt,  that,  though  the 
laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire,  unhappy  is  the  man  who 
lowers  his  art  to  the  level  of  a  trade.  In  olden  times,  the 
priests  did,  indeed,  eat  of  the  sacrificial  meats ;  but  we  live 
under  a  new  and  higher  dispensation. 


II. 

MEANTIME,  what  of  Hepsy  Ann  Nickerson?  She 
had  bravely  sent  her  hero  out,  with  her  blessing  on 
his  aspirations.  Did  she  regret  her  love  and  trust  ?  I  am 
ashamed  to  say  that  these  five  long,  weary  years  had  passed 
happily  to  this  young  woman.  She  had  her  hands  full  of 
work  at  home,  where  she  reigned  over  a  family  of  brothers 
and  sisters,  vice\er  mother,  promoted.  Hands  busied  with 
useful  toils,  head  and  heart  filled  with  love  and  trust  of 
Elkanah,  there  was  no  room  for  unhappiness.  To  serve 
and  to  be  loved ;  this  seems,  indeed,  to  be  the  bliss  of  the 
happiest  women  I  have  known,  —  and  of  the  happiest  men, 
too,  for  that  matter.  It  does  not  sound  logical,  and  I  know 


260          Elkanah  Brewsters  Temptation. 

of  no  theory  of  woman's  rights  which  will  satisfactorily 
account  for  the  phenomenon.  But  then  —  there  are  the 
facts. 

A  Cape  household  is  a  simpler  affair  than  you  will  meet 
with  in  the  city.  If  any  young  marrying  man  waits  for  a 
wife  who  shall  be  an  adept  in  the  mysteries  of  the  kitchen 
and  the  sewing-basket,  let  him  go  down  to  the  Cape. 
Captain  Elijah  Nickerson,  Hepsy  Ann's  father,  was  master 
and  owner  of  the  good  schooner  "  Miranda,"  in  which  ex- 
cellent, but  rather  strongly  scented  vessel,  he  generally  made 
yearly  two  trips  to  the  Newfoundland  Banks,  to  draw  thence 
his  regular  income  ;  and  it  is  to  be  remarked,  that  his  drafts, 
presented  in  person,  were  never  dishonored  in  that  foggy 
region.  Uncle  Elijah  (they  are  all  uncles,  on  the  Cape, 
when  they  marry  and  have  children,  —  and  boys  until  then), 
Uncle  Elijah,  I  say,  was  not  uncomfortably  off,  as  things 
go  in  those  parts.  The  year  before  Elkanah  went  to  New 
York,  the  old  fellow  had  built  himself  a  bran-new  house, 
and  Hepsy  Ann  was  looked  up  to  by  her  acquaintance  as 
the  daughter  of  a  man  who  was  not  only  brave  and  honest, 
but  also  lucky.  "  Elijah  Nickerson's  new  house  "  —  as  it  is 
still  called,  and  will  be,  I  suppose,  until  it  ceases  to  be  a 
house  —  was  fitted  up  inside  in  a  way  which  put  you  much 
in  mind  of  a  ship's  cabin,  and  would  have  delighted  the 
simple  heart  of  good  Captain  Cuttle. 

There  was  no  spare  space  anywhere  thrown  away,  nor 
anything  suffered  to  lie  loose.  Beckets  and  cleats,  fixed 
into  the  walls  of  the  sitting-room,  held  and  secure^  against 
any  possible  damage  the  pipes,  fish-lines,  dolphin-grains, 
and  sou'westers  of  the  worthy  Captain  ;  and  here  he  and 
his  sat,  when  he  was  at  home,  through  the  long  winter 
evenings,  in  simple  and  not  often  idle  content.  The  kitch- 
en, flanked  by  the  compendious  outhouses  which  make  our 
New  England  kitchens  almost  luxurious  in  the  comfort  and 
handiness  of  every  arrangement,  was  the  centre  of  Hepsy 
Ann's  kingdom,  where  she  reigned  supreme,  and  waged 
sternest  warfare  against  dirt  and  disorder.  Hence  her 


Elkanah  Brewster's  Temptation.          261 

despotic  sway  extended  over  the  pantry,  an  awful,  and  fra- 
grant sanctuary,  whither  she  fled  when  household  troubles, 
or  a  letter  from  Elkanah,  demanded  her  entire  seclusion 
from  the  outer  world,  and  of  whose  interior  the  children 
got  faint  glimpses  and  sniffs  only  on  special  and  long- 
remembered  occasions;  the  west  room,  where  her  father 
slept  when  he  was  at  home,  and  where  the  curious  searcher 
might  find  store  of  old  compasses,  worn-out  cod-hooks, 
condemned  gurry-knives,  and  last  year's  fishing-mittens, 
all  "stowed  away  against  time-o'-need " ;  the  spare  room, 
sacred  to  the  rites  of  hospitality  ;  the  "  up-stairs,"  occupied 
by  the  children  and  Hepsy  Ann's  self;  and  finally,  but 
most  important  of  all,  the  parlor,  a  mysterious  and  her- 
metically sealed  apartment,  which  almost  seemed  to  me  an 
unconsecrated  spot  in  this  little  temple  of  the  homely 
virtues  and  affections,  —  a  room  furnished  in  a  style  some- 
what ostentatious  and  decidedly  uncomfortable,  swept  and 
.dusted  on  Saturday  afternoons  by  Hepsy  Ann's  own  careful 
hands,  sat  in  by  the  Captain  and  her  for  an  hour  or  two  on 
Sundays  in  awkward  state,  then  darkened  and  locked  for 
the  rest  of  the  week. 

As  for  the  queen  and  mistress  of  so  much  neatness  and 
comfort,  I  must  say,  that,  like  most  queens  whose  likeness 
I  have  seen,  she  was  rather  plain  than  strictly  beautiful,  — 
though,  no  doubt,  her  loyal  subjects,  as  in  such  cases  com- 
monly occurs,  pictured  her  to  themselves  as  a  very  Helen 
of  Troy.  If  her  cheeks  had  something  of  the  rosy  hue  of 
health,  cheeks,  and  arms,  too,  were  well  tanned  by  frequent 
exposure  to  the  sun.  Neither  tall  nor  short,  but  with  a 
lithe  figure,  a  natural  grace  and  sweet  dignity  of  carriage, 
the  result  of  sufficient  healthy  exercise,  and  a  pure,  un- 
troubled spirit ;  hands  and  feet,  mouth  and  nose,  not  such 
as  a  gentleman  would  particularly  notice ;  and  straight 
brown  hair,  which  shaded  the  only  really  beautiful  part 
of  Hepsy  Ann's  face,  —  her  clear,  honest,  brave  blue  eyes  : 
eyes  from  which  spoke  a  soul  at  peace  with  itself  and  with 
the  outward  world,  —  a  soul  yet  full  of  love  and  trust,  fear- 


262          Elkanah  Brewsters  Temptation. 

ing  nothing,  doubting  nothing,  believing  much  good,  and 
inclined  to  patient  endurance  of  the  human  weaknesses  it 
met  with  in  daily  life,  as  not  perhaps  altogether  strange  to 
itself.  The  Cape  men  are  a  brave,  hardy  race ;  and  the 
Cape  women,  grave  and  somewhat  silent,  not  demonstrative 
in  joy  or  grief,  reticent  mostly  of  anxieties  and  sorrows,  born 
to  endure,  in  separation  from  fathers,  brothers,  lovers,  hus- 
bands, in  dangers  not  oftener  fancied  than  real,  griefs  which 
more  fortunate  women  find  it  difficult  to  imagine,  —  these 
Cape  women  are  worthy  mothers  of  brave  men.  Of  such 
our  Hepsy  Ann  was  a  fair  example,  —  weaving  her  rather 
prosaic  life  into  golden  dreams  in  the  quiet  light  of  her 
pantry  refuge,  happy  chiefly  because  she  thought  much  and 
carefully  for  others  and  had  little  time  for  self-brooding ; 
like  most  genuine  heroines  (except  those  of  France),  living 
an  heroic  life  without  in  the  least  suspecting  it. 

And  did  she  believe  in  Elkanah? 

Utterly. 

And  did  Elkanah  believe  in  himself? 

Yes,  —  but  with  certain  grave  doubts.  Here  is  the  differ- 
ence :  the  woman's  faith  is  intuition  ;  the  man  must  have  a 
reason  for  the  faith  that  is  in  him. 

Yet  Elkanah  was  growing.  I  think  a  man  grows  like  the 
walls  of  a  house,  by  distinct  stagea :  so  far  the  scaffolding 
reaches,  and  then  a  general  stoppage  while  the  outer  shell 
is  raised,  the  ladders  lengthened,  and  the  work  squared 
off.  Now  I  don't  know,  unhappily,  the  common  process  of 
growth  of  the  artistic  mind,  and  how  far  the  light  of  to-day 
helps  the  neophyte  to  look  into  the  indefinite  twilight  of 
to-morrow ;  but  step  by  step  was  the  slow  rule  of  Elkanah's 
mind,  and  he  had  been  now  five  years  an  artist,  and  was 
held  in  no  despicable  repute  by  those  few  who  could  rightly 
judge  of  a  man's  future  by  his  past,  when  first  it  became 
very  clear  to  him  that  he  had  yet  to  find  his  specialty  in 
Art,  —  that  truth  which  he  might  better  represent  than  any 
other  man.  Don't  think  five  years  long  to  determine  so 
trivial  a  point.  The  right  man  in  the  right  place  is  still 


Elkanah  Brewsters  Temptation.          263 

a  rare  phenomenon  in  the  world ;  and  some  men  spend  a 
lifetime  in  the  consideration  of  this  very  point,  doubtless 
looking  to  take  their  chance  of  real  work  in  the  next  world. 
I  mean  to  say  it  took  Elkanah  just  five  years  to  discover, 
that,  though  he  painted  many  things  well,  he  did  yet  put 
his  very  soul  into  none,  and  that,  unless  he  could  now 
presently  find  this,  his  right  place,  he  had,  perhaps,  better 
stop  altogether. 

Elkanah  considered;  but  he  also  worked  unceasingly, 
feeling  that  the  best  way  to  break  through  a  difficulty  is  to 
pepper  away  at  its  outer  walls. 

Now  while  he  was  firing  away  wearily  at  this  fortress, 
which  held,  he  thought,  the  deepest  secret  of  his  life,  Hepsy 
Ann  sat  in  her  pantry,  her  serene  soul  troubled  by  unwonted 
fears.  Captain  Elijah  Nickerson  had  sailed  out  in  his 
stanch  schooner  in  earliest  spring,  for  the  Banks.  The 
old  -man  had  been  all  winter  meditating  a  surprise;  and 
his  crew  were  in  unusual  excitement,  peering  out  at  the 
weather,  consulting  almanacs,  prophesying  (to  outsiders)  a 
late  season,  and  winking  to  each  other  a  cheerful  disbelief 
of  their  own  auguries.  The  fact  is,  they  were  intending  to 
slip  off  before  the  rest,  and  perhaps  have  half  their  fare  of 
fish  caught  before  the  fleet  got  along.  No  plan  could  have 
succeeded  better  —  up  to  a  certain  point.  Captain  Elijah 
got  off  to  sea  full  twelve  days  earlier  than  anybody  else, 
and  was  bowling  merrily  down  towards  the  eternal  fog- 
banks  when  his  neighbors  were  yet  scarce  thinking  of  gath- 
ering up  their  mittens  and  sea-boots.  By  the  time  the  last 
comers  arrived  on  the  fishing-ground,  one  who  had  spoken 
the  -"Miranda"  some  days  before,  anchored  and  fishing 
away,  reported  that  they  had,  indeed,  nearly  wet  her  salt,  — 
by  which  is  meant  that  she  was  nearly  filled  with  good, 
sound  codfish.  The  men  were  singing  as  they  dressed  their 
fish,  and  Captain  Elijah,  sitting  high  up  on  the  schooner's 
quarter,  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and  asked,  as  the 
vessel  rose  on  the  sea,  if  they  had  any  news  to  send  home, 
for  three  days  more  like  that  would  fill  him  up. 


264          Elkanah  Brewsters  Temptation. 

That  was  the  last  word  of  Captain  Elijah  Nickerson's 
ever  heard  by  men  now  living.  Whether  the  "  Miranda  " 
was  sunk  by  an  iceberg ;  whether  run  down  in  the  dark 
and  silent  watches  of  the  night  by  some  monster  packet 
or  swift  hurling  steamer,  little  recking  the  pale  fisher's  light 
feebly  glimmering  up  from  the  surface  of  the  deep ;  or 
whether  they  went  down  at  their  anchors,  in  the  great  gale 
which  set  in  on  the  third  night,  as  many  brave  men  have 
done  before,  looking  their  fate  steadfastly  in  the  face  for 
long  hours,  and  taking  time  to  bid  each  other  farewell  ere 
the  great  sea  swallowed  them ;  —  the  particulars  of  their 
hapless  fate  no  man  may  know,  till  the  dread  day  when  the 
sea  shall  give  up  its  dead. 

Vainly  poor  Hepsy  Ann  waited  for  the  well-known  signal 
in  the  offing,  —  daily  walking  to  the  shore,  where  kind  old 
Uncle  Shubael,  now  long  superannuated,  and  idly  busying 
himself  about  the  fish-house,  strove  to  cheer  her  fainting 
soul  by  store  of  well-chosen  proverbs,  and  yarns  of  how, 
aforetimes,  schooners  not  larger  and  not  so  stout  as  the 
"  Miranda,"  starting  early  for  the  Banks,  had  been  blown 
southward  to  the  West  Indies,  and,  when  the  second-fare 
men  came  in  with  their  fish,  had  made  their  appearance 
laden  with  rich  cargoes  of  tropical  molasses  and  bananas. 
Poor  Hepsy  Ann !  what  need  to  describe  the  long-drawn 
agony  which  grew  with  the  summer  flowers,  but  did  not 
wane  with  the  summer  sun?  Hour  after  hour,  day  after 
day,  she  sat  by  her  pantry-window,  looking  with  wistful 
eyes  out  upon  the  sand,  to  that  spot  where  the  ill-fated 
"  Miranda "  had  last  been  seen,  but  never  should  appear 
again,  —  another 

"poor  lone  Hannah, 
Sitting  by  the  window,  binding  shoes,"  — 

cheeks  paling,  eyes  dimming,  with  that  hope  deferred  which 
maketh  the  heart  sick.  Pray  God  you  never  may  be  so 
tried,  fair  reader !  If,  in  these  days,  she  had  not  had  the 
children  to  keep  and  comfort,  she  has  since  told  me,  she 
could  scarce  have  borne  it.  To  calm  their  fears,  to  soothe 


Elkanah  Brewster's  Temptation.          265 

their  little  sorrows,  to  look  anxiously  —  morq  anxiously 
than  ever  before  —  after  each  one  of  her  precious  little 
brood,  became  now  her  chief  solace. 

Thus  the  long,  weary  days  rolled  away,  each  setting  sun 
crushing  another  hope,  until  at  last  the  autumn  storms 
approached,  the  last  Banker  was  safe  home ;  and  by  this 
time  it  was  plain,  even  to  poor  Hepsy  Ann's  faithful  heart 
that  her  dead  would  not  come  back  to  her. 

"  If  only  Elkanah  were  here  !  "  she  had  sometimes  sighed 
to  herself ;  —  but  in  all  these  days  she  wrote  him  no  word. 
And  he  —  guessing  nothing  of  her  long,  silent  agony,  him- 
self sufficiently  bemired  in  his  slough  of  despond,  working 
away  with  sad,  unsatisfied  heart  in  his  little  studio,  hoping 
yet  for  light  to  come  to  his  night  —  was,  in  truth,  so  full  of 
himself,  that  Hepsy  Ann  had  little  of  his  thoughts.  Shall 
I  go  farther,  and  admit  that  sometimes  this  poor  fellow 
dimly  regretted  his  pledged  heart,  and  faintly  murmured, 
"If  only  I  were  free,  then  I  might  do  something?"  If 
only  the  ship  were  rid  of  her  helmsman,  then  indeed  would 
she  go  —  somewhere. 

At  last,  —  it  was  already  near  Thanksgiving,  —  the  news 
reached  Elkanah.  "  I  thought  you'  d  ha'  been  down  afore 
this  to  see  Hepsy  Ann  Nickerson  in  her  trouble,"  said  an 
old  coasting-skipper  to  him,  with  mild  reproach,  handing 
him  a  letter  from  his  mother,  —  of  all  persons  in  the  world  ! 
Whereupon,  seeing  ignorance  in  Elkanah's  inquiring  glance, 
he  told  the  story. 

Elkanah  was  as  one  in  a  maze.  Going  to  his  little  room, 
he  opened  his  mother's  letter,  half-dreading  to  find  here  a 
detailed  repetition  of  what  his  heart  had  just  taken  in. 
But  the  letter  was  short. 

"  MY  SON  ELKANAH,  —  ' 

"  Do  you  not  know  that  Captain  Elijah  Nickerson  will 
never  come  home  from  the  Banks,  and  that  Hepsy  Ann  is 
left  alone  in  the  world  ? 

" '  For  this  cause  shall  a  man  leave  his  father  and  mother, 

12 


266          Elkanah  Brewsters  Temptation. 

and  be  joined  to  his  wife,   and  they  two   shall  be   one 
flesh.'" 


That  was  all. 

Elkanah  sat  on  his  stool,  before  his  easel,  looking  vacantly 
at  the  unfinished  picture,  as  one  stunned  and  breathless. 
For  the  purport  of  this  message  was  not  to  be  mistaken. 
Nor  did  his  conscience  leave  him  in  doubt  as  to  his  duty. 
O  God !  was  this,  indeed,  the  end  ?  Had  he  toiled,  and  hoped 
and  prayed,  and  lived  the  life  of  an  anchorite  these  five  years 
only  for  this  ?  Was  such  faith,  such  devotion,  so  rewarded  ? 

But  had  any  one  the  right  to  demand  this  sacrifice  of 
him  ?  Was  it  not  a  devilish  temptation  to  take  him  from 
his  calling,  from  that  work  in  which  God  had  evidently 
intended  him  to  work  for  the  world  ?  Had  he  a  right  to 
spoil  his  life,  to  belittle  his  soul,  for  any  consideration  ?  If 
Hepsy  Ann  Nickerson  had  claims,  had  not  he  also,  and 
his  Art?  If  he  were  willing,  in  this  dire  extremity,  to  sacri- 
fice his  love,  his  prospects  of  married  bliss,  might  he  not 
justly  require  the  same  of  her  ?  Was  not  Art  his  mistress  ? 
—  Thus  whispered  the  insidious  devil  of  Selfishness  to  this 
poor,  tempted,  anguished  soul. 

"  Yea,"  whispered  another  still,  small  voice  ;  "  but  is  not 
Hepsy  Ann  your  promised  wife  ?  "  And  those  fatal  words 
sounded  in  his  heart :  "  For  this  cause  shall  a  man  leave 
his  father  and  mother,  and  be  joined  to  his  wife." 

"  Lord,  inspire  me  to  do  what  is  right ! "  prayed  poor 
amazed  Elkanah,  sinking  on  his  knees  at  his  cot-side. 

But  presently,  through  his  blinding  tears,  "  Lord,  give 
me  strength  to  do  the  right ! " 

And  then,  when  he  awoke  next  morning,  the  world  seemed 
another  world  to  him.  The  foundations  of  his  life  seemed 
broken  loose.  Tears  were  no  longer,  nor  prayers.  But  he 
went  about  slowly,  and  with  loving  hands,  packing  up  his 
brushes,  pallets,  paints,  easel,  —  all  the  few  familiar  objects 
of  a  life  which  was  his  no  longer,  and  on  which  he  seemed 
to  himself  already  looking  as  across  some  vast  gulf  of 


Elkanah  Brewsters  Temptation.          267 

years.  At  last  all  was  done.  A  last  look  about  the  dis- 
mantled garret,  so  long  his  workshop,  his  home,  where  he 
had  grown  out  of  one  life  into  another,  and  a  better,  as  he 
thought,  —  out  of  a  narrow  circle  into  a  broader.  And 
then,  away  for  the  Cape.  No  farewells,  no  explanations  to 
friends,  nothing  that  should  hold  out  to  his  sad  soul  any 
faintest  hope  of  a  return  to  this  garret,  this  toil,  which 
now  seemed  to  him  more  heaven  than  ever  before.  Thus 
this  Adam  left  his  paradise,  clinging  to  his  Eve. 

It  was  the  day  before  Thanksgiving  when  Elkanah  ar- 
rived at  home.  Will  any  one  blame  him,  if  he  felt  little 
thankful  ?  if  the  thought  of  the  Thanksgiving  turkey  was 
like  to  choke  him,  and  the  very  idea  of  giving  thanks 
seemed  to  him  a  bitter  satire  ?  Poor  fellow  !  he  forgot 
that  there  were  other  hearts  to  whom  Thanksgiving  turkey 
seemed  little  tempting. 

The  Cape  folk  are  not  demonstrative.  They  have  warm 
hearts,  but  the  old  Puritan  ice  has  never  quite  melted  away 
from  the  outer  shell. 

"  Well,  Elkanah,  glad  to  see  you,  boy  !  "  said  his  father, 
looking  up  from  his  corner  by  the  stove  ;  "  how 's  things  in 
New  York  ?"  Father  and  son  had  not  met  for  three  years. 
But,  going  out  into  the  kitchen,  he  received  a  warm  grasp 
of  the  hand,  and  his  mother  said,  in  her  low,  sweet  voice, 
"  I  knew  you'd  come."  That  was  all.  But  it  was  enough. 

How  to  take  his  sad  face  over  to  Elijah  Nickerson's  new 
house  ?  But  that  must  be  done,  too.  Looking  through  the 
little  sitting-room  window,  as  he  passed,  he  saw  pale-faced 
Hepsy  Ann  sitting  quietly  by  the  table,  sewing.  The  chil- 
dren had  gone  to  bed.  He  did  not  knock  ;  —  why  should 
he  ?  —  but,  walking  in,  stood  silent  on  the  floor.  A  glad, 
surprised  smile  lit  up  the  sad,  wan  face,  as  she  recognized 
him,  and,  stepping  to  his  side,  said,  "  O,  Elkanah  !  I  knew 
you  'd  come.  How  good  of  you  ! "  Then,  abashed  to  have 
so  committed  herself  and  him,  she  shrank  to  her  chair 
again. 

Let  us  not  intrude  further  on  these  two.     Surely  Elkanah 


268          Elkanah  Brewsters  Temptation. 

Brewster  had  been  less  than  man,  had  he  not  found  his 
hard  heart  to  soften,  and  his  cold  love  to  warm,  as  he  drew 
from  her  the  story  of  her  long  agony,  and  saw  this  weary 
heart  ready  to  rest  upon  him,  longing  to  be  comforted  in 
his  strong  arms. 

The  next  day  a  small  sign  was  put  up  at  Abijah  Brewster's 
door : — 


BOOTS    AND    SHOES 

MADE  AND  MENDED 

BY 

ELKANAH   BREWSTER. 


It  was  arranged  that  he  should  work  at  his  trade  all 
winter.  In  the  spring,  he  was  to  have  his  father's  vessel, 
and  the  wedding  would  be  before  he  started  for  the  Banks. 

So  the  old  life  was  put  on  again.  I  will  not  say  that 
Elkanah  was  thoroughly  content,  —  that  there  were  no  bit- 
ter longings,  no  dim  regrets,  no  faint  questionings  of  Provi- 
dence. But  hard  work  is  a  good  salve  for  a  sore  heart ; 
and  in  his  honest  toils,  in  his  care  for  Hepsy  Ann  and  her 
little  brood,  in  her  kind  heart,  which  acknowledged  with 
such  humility  of  love  all  he  did  for  her  and  all  he  had  cast 
away  for  her,  he  found  his  reward. 

The  wedding  was  over,  —  a  quiet  affair  enough,  —  and 
Elkanah  was  anchored  on  the  Banks,  with  a  brave,  skilful 
crew,  and  plenty  of  fish.  His  old  luck  had  not  deserted 
him ;  wherever  he  dropped  anchor,  there  the  cod  seemed 
to  gather;  and,  in  the  excitement  of  catching  fish  and 
guarding  against  the  dangers  of  the  Banks,  the  old  New 
York  life  seemed  presently  forgotten ;  and,  once  more, 
Elkanah's  face  wore  the  old,  hopeful  calm  which  belonged 
there.  Art,  that  had  been  so  long  his  tyrant  mistress,  was 
at  last  cast  off. 

Was  she  ? 


Elkanah  Brewsters  Temptation.          269 

As  he  sat,  one  evening,  high  on  the  quarter,  smoking  his, 
pipe,  in  that  calm,  contemplative  mood  which  is  the  smoker's 
reward  for  a  day  of  toil,  —  the  little  vessel  pitching  bows 
under  in  the  long,  tremendous  swell  of  the  Atlantic,  the 
low  drifting  fog  lurid  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun,  but 
bright  stars  twinkling  out,  one  by  one,  overhead,  in  a  sky 
of  Italian  clearness  and  softness, — it  all  came  to  him,— 
that  which  he  had  so  long,  so  vainly  sought,  toiled  for, 
prayed  for  in  New  York,  —  his  destiny. 

Why  should  he  paint  heads,  figures,  landscapes,  objects 
with  which  his  heart  had  never  been  really  filled  ? 

But  now,  as  in  one  flash  of  divinest  intelligence,  it  was 
revealed  to  him  !  —  This  sea,  this  fog,  this  sky,  these  stars, 
this  old,  old  life,  which  he  had  been  almost  born  into.  O, 
blind  bat  indeed,  not  to  have  seen,  long,  long  ago,  that  this 
was  your  birthright  in  Art !  not  to  have  felt  in  your  inner- 
most heart,  that  this  was  indeed  that  thing,  if  anything, 
which  God  had  called  you  to  paint ! 

For  this  Elkanah  had  drunk  in  from  his  earliest  youth,  — 
this  he  understood  to  its  very  core ;  but  the  poor  secret  of 
that  other  life,  which  is  so  draped  about  with  the  artistic 
mannerisms  and  fashionable  Art  of  New  York,  or  any  other 
civilized  life,  he  had  never  rightly  appreciated, 

In  that  sunset-hour  was  born  a.  painter  J 


III. 

IT  chanced,  that,  a  few  months  ago,  I  paid  my  accus- 
tomed summer  visit  to  an  old  friend,  living  near  Boston, 
—  a  retired  merchant  he  calls  himself.  He  began  life  as  a 
cabin-boy,  —  became,  in  time,  master  of  an  Indiaman,  — 
then,  partner  in  a  China  house,  —  and  after  many  years' 
residence  in  Canton,  returned  some  years  ago,  heart  and 
liver  whole,  to  spend  his  remaining  days  among  olden 
scenes.  A  man  of  truest  culture,  generous  heart,  and  rarely 
erring  taste.  I  never  go  there  without  finding  something 
new  and  admirable. 


2/o          Elkanah  Brewsters  Temptation. 

,  "  What  am  I  to  see,  this  time  ? "  I  asked,  after  dinner, 
looking  about  the  drawing-room. 

"  Come.     I  '11  show  you." 

He  led  me  up  to  a  painting,  —  a  sea-piece  :  — A  schooner, 
riding  at  her  anchor,  at  sunset,  far  out  at  sea,  no  land  in 
sight,  sails  down,  all  but  a  little  patch  of  storm-sail  flutter- 
ing wildly  in  the  gale,  and  heavily  pitching  in  a  great,  grand, 
rolling  sea  ;  around,  but  not  closely  enveloping  her,  a  driv- 
ing fog-bank,  lurid  in  the  yellow  sheen  of  the  setting  sun  ; 
above  her,  a  few  stars  dimly  twinkling  through  a  clear  blue 
sky ;  on  the  quarter-deck,  men  sitting,  wrapped  in  all  the 
paraphernalia  of  storm-clothing,  smoking  and  watching  the 
roll  of  the  sea. 

"  What  do  you  think  ? "  asked  Captain  Eastwick,  inter- 
rupting my  rapt  contemplation. 

"  I  never  in  my  life  saw  so  fine  a  sea-view.  Whose  can 
it  be?" 

"A  Cape-Cod  fisherman's." 

"  But  he  is  a  genius  !  "  cried  I,  enthusiastically. 

"  A  great,  a  splendid  genius  !  "  said  my  friend,  quietly. 

"And  a  fisherman?" 

"Yes,  and  shoemaker." 

"  What  a  magnificent  career  he  might  make !  WThy 
don't  you  help  him  !  What  a  pity  to  bury  such  a  man  in 
fish-boots  and  cod-livers  !  " 

"My  dear — ,"  said  Captain  Eastwick,  "you  are  a  goose. 
The  highest  genius  lives  above  the  littleness  of  making  a 
career.  This  man  needs  no  Academy  prizes  or  praises. 
To  my  mind,  his  is  the  noblest,  happiest  life  of  all." 

Whereupon  he  told  me  the  story  which  I  have  endeavored 
to  relate. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  RED  CHESSMEN. 


HE  box  of  chessmen  had  been  left  open  all  night. 
That  was  a  great  oversight !  For  everybody 
knows  that  the  contending  chessmen  are  but  too 
eager  to  fight  their  battles  over  again  by  midnight,  if  a 
chance  is  only  allowed  them. 

It  was  at  the  Willows,  —  so  called,  not  because  the  house 
is  surrounded  by  willows,  but  because  a  little  clump  of 
them  hangs  over  the  pond  close  by.  It  is  a  pretty  place, 
with  its  broad  lawn  in  front  of  the  door-way,  its  winding 
avenue  hidden  from  the  road  by  high  trees.  It  is  a  quiet 
place,  too ;  the  sun  rests  gently  on  the  green  lawn,  and 
the  drooping  leaves  of  the  willows  hang  heavily  over  the 
water. 

No  one  would  imagine  what  violent  contests  were  going 
on  under  the  still  roof,  this  very  night.  It  was  the  night  of 
the  first  of  May.  The  moon  came  silently  out  from  the 
shadows  ;  the  trees  were  scarcely  stirring.  The  box  of 
chessmen  had  been  left  on  the  balcony  steps  by  the  draw- 
ing-room window,  and  the  window,  too,  that  warm  night, 
had  been  left  open.  So,  one  by  one,  all  the  chessmen  came 
out  to  fight  over  again  their  evening's  battles. 

It  was  a  famously  carved  set  of  chessmen.  The  bishops 
wore  their  mitres,  the  knights  pranced  on  spirited  steeds, 
the  castles  rested  on  the  backs  of  elephants,  —  even  the 
pawns  mimicked  the  private  soldiers  of  an  army.  The 
skilful  carver  had  given  to  each  piece,  and  each  pawn,  too, 
a  certain  individuality.  That  night  there  had  been  a  close 


272          The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen. 

contest.  Two  well-matched  players  had  guided  the  game, 
and  it  had  ended  with  leaving  a  deep  irritation  on  the  con- 
quered side. 

It  was  Isabella  the  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen,  who 
had  been  obliged  to  yield.  She  was  young  and  proud,  and 
it  was  she,  indeed,  who  held  the  rule  ;  for  her  father,  the 
old  Red  King,  had  grown  too  imbecile  to  direct  affairs ;  he 
merely  bore  the  name  of  sovereignty.  And  Isabella  was 
loved  by  knights,  pawns,  and  all ;  the  bishops  were  willing 
to  die  in  her  cause,  the  castles  would  have  crumbled  to 
earth  for  her.  Opposed  to  her,  stood  the  detested  White 
Queen.  All  the  Whites,  of  course,  were  despised  by  her ; 
but  the  haughty,  self-sufficient  queen  angered  her  most. 

The  White  Queen  was  reigning  during  the  minority  of 
her  only  son.  The  White  Prince  had  reached  the  age  of 
nineteen,  but  the  strong  mind  of  his  mother  had  kept  him 
always  under  restraint.  A  simple  youth,  he  had  always 
yielded  to  her  control.  He  was  pure-hearted  and  gentle, 
but  never  ventured  to  make  a  move  of  his  own.  He  sought 
shelter  under  cover  of  his  castles,  while  his  more  energetic 
mother  went  forth  at  the  head  of  his  army.  She  was 
dreaded  by  her  subjects,  —  never  loved  by  them.  Her  own 
pawn,  it  is  true,  had  ventured  much  for  her  sake,  had  often 
with  his  own  life  redeemed  her  from  captivity  ;  but  it  was 
loyalty  that  bound  even  him,  —  no  warmer  feeling  of  devo- 
tion or  love. 

The  Queen  Isabella  was  the  first  to  come  out  from  her 
prison. 

"  I  will  stay  here  no  longer,"  she  cried ;  "  the  blood  of 
the  Reds  grows  pale  in  this  inactivity." 

She  stood  upon  the  marble  steps ;  the  May  moon  shone 
down  upon  her.  She  listened  a  moment  to  a  slight  mur- 
muring within  the  drawing-room  window.  The  Spanish 
lady,  the  Murillo-painted  Spanish  lady,  had  come  down 
from  her  frame  that  bound  her  against  the  wall.  Just  .for 
this  one  night  in  the  year,  she  stepped  out  from  the  canvas 
to  walk  up  and  down  the  rooms  majestically.  She  would 


The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen.         273 

not  exchange  a  word  with  anybody ;  nobody  understood 
her  language.  She  could  remember  when  Murillo  looked 
at  her,  watched  over  her,  created  her  with  his  pencil.  She 
could  have  nothing  to  say  to  little  paltry  shepherdesses, 
and  other  articles  of  virtti,  that  came  into  grace  and  mo- 
tion just  at  this  moment. 

The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen  turned  away,  down 
into  the  avenue.  The  May  moon  shone  upon  her.  Her 
feet  trod  upon  unaccustomed  ground ;  no  black  or  white 
square  hemmed  her  in  ;  she  felt  a  new  liberty. 

"  My  poor  old  father  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  I  will  leave  him 
behind ;  better  let  him  slumber  in  an  ignoble  repose  than 
wander  over  the  board,  a  laughing-stock  for  his  enemies. 
We  have  been  conquered,  —  the  foolish  White  Prince  rules ! " 

A  strange  inspiration  stole  upon  her ;  the  breath  of  the 
May  night  hovered  over  her ;  the  May  moon  shone  upon 
her.  She  could  move  without  waiting  for  the  will  of 
another ;  she  was  free.  She  passed  down  the  avenue  ; 
she  had  left  her  old  prison  behind. 

Early  in  the  morning,  —  it  was  just  after  sunrise,  —  the 
kind  Doctor  Lester  was  driving  home,  after  watching  half 
the  night  out  with  a  patient.  He  passed  the  avenue  to  the 
Willows,  but  drew  up  his  horse  just  as  he  was  leaving  the 
entrance.  He  saw  a  young  girl  sitting  under  the  hedge. 
She  was  without  any  bonnet,  in  a  red  dress,  fitting  closely 
and  hanging  heavily  about  her.  She  was  so  very  beautiful, 
she  looked  so  strangely  lost  and  out  of  place  here  at  this 
early  hour,  that  the  Doctor  could  not  resist  speaking 
to  her. 

"  My  child,  how  came  you  here  ? " 

The  young  girl  rose  up,  and  looked  round  with  uncer- 
tainty. 

"  Where  am  I  ? "  she  asked. 

She  was  very  tall  and  graceful,  with  an  air  of  command, 
but  with  a  strange,  wild  look  in  her  eyes. 

"  The  young  woman  must  be  slightly  insane,"  thought 
the  Doctor ;  "but  she  cannot  have  wandered  far." 
12*  R 


274         The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen. 

"  Let  me  take  you  home,"  he  said  aloud.  "  Perhaps  you 
come  from  the  Willows  ? " 

"O,  don't  take  me  back  there!"  cried  Isabella,  "they 
will  imprison  me  again !  I  had  rather  be  a  slave  than  a 
conquered  queen !  " 

"  Decidedly  insane  !  "  thought  the  Doctor.  «'  I  must  take 
her  back  to  the  Willows." 

He  persuaded  the  young  girl  to  let  him  lift  her  into  his 
chaise.  She  did  not  resist  him ;  but  when  he  turned  up 
the  avenue,  she  leaned  back  in  despair.  He  was  fortunate 
enough  to  find  one  of  the  servants  up  at  the  house,  just 
sweeping  the  steps  of  the  hall-door.  Getting  out  of  his 
chaise,  he  said  confidentially  to  the  servant,  — 

"  I  have  brought  back  your  young  lady." 

"  Our  young  lady  ! "  exclaimed  the  man,  as  the  Doctor 
pointed  out  Isabella. 

"  Yes,  she  is  a  little  insane,  is  she  not  ?  " 

"  She  is  not  our  young  lady,"  answered  the  servant ;  "we 
have  nobody  in  the  house  just  now,  but  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Fogerty,  and  Mrs.  Fogerty's  brother,  the  old  geologist." 

"  Where  did  she  come  from  ?  "  inquired  the  Doctor. 

"I  never  saw  her  before,"  said  the  servant,  "and  I  cer- 
tainly should  remember.  There's  some  foreign  folks  live 
down  in  the  cottage,  by  the  railroad ;  but  they  are  not  the 
like  of  her  !  " 

The  Doctor  got  into  his  chaise  again,  bewildered. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  "  you  must  tell  me  where  you  came 
from." 

"  O,  don't  let  me  go  back  again  !  "  said  Isabella,  clasping 
her  hands  imploringly.  "  Think  how  hard  it  must  be  never 
to  take  a  move  of  one's  own  !  to  know  how  the  game  might 
be  won,  then  see  it  lost  through  folly  !  O,  that  last  game, 
lost  through  utter  weakness  !  There  was  that  one  move  ! 
Why  did  he  not  push  me  down  to  the  king's  row  ?  I  might 
have  checkmated  the  White  Prince,  shut  in  by  his  own 
castles  and  pawns,  —  it  would  have  been  a  direct  check- 
mate !  Think  of  his  folly  !  he  stopped  to  take  the  queen's 


The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen.         275 

pawn  with  his  bishop,  and  within  one  move  of  a  check- 
mate ! " 

"Quite  insane!"  repeated  the  Doctor.  "But  I  must 
have  my  breakfast.  She  seems  quiet ;  I  think  I  can  keep 
her  till  after  breakfast,  and  then  I  must  try  and  find  where 
the  poor  child's  friends  live.  I  don't  know  what  Mrs. 
Lester  will  think  of  her." 

They  rode  on.     Isabella  looked  timidly  round. 

"  You  don't  quite  believe  me,"  she  said,  at  last.  "  It 
seems  strange  to  you." 

"  It  does,"  answered  the  Doctor,  "  seem  very  strange." 

"Not  stranger  than  to  me,"  said  Isabella,  —  "it  is  so 
very  grand  to  me  !  All  this  motion  !  Look  down  at  that 
great  field  there,  not  cut  up  into  squares  !  If  I  only  had 
my  knights  and  squires  there  !  I  would  be  willing  to  give 
her  as  good  a  field,  too  ;  but  I  would  show  her  where  the 
true  bravery  lies.  What  a  place  for  the  castles,  just  to 
defend  that  pass  !  " 

The  Doctor  whipped  up  his  horse. 

Mrs.  Lester  was  a  little  surprised  at  the  companion  her 
husband  had  brought  home  to  breakfast  with  him. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"That  I  don't  know,  —  I  shall  have  to  find  out,"  he 
answered,  a  little  nervously. 

"Where  is  her  bonnet?"  asked  Mrs.  Lester;  this  was 
the  first  absence  of  conventionality  she  had  noticed. 

"  You  had  better  ask  her,"  answered  the  Doctor. 

But  Mrs.  Lester  preferred  leaving  her  guest  in  the  parlor 
while  she  questioned  her  husband.  She  was  somewhat 
disturbed  when  she  found  he  had  nothing  more  satisfactory 
to  tell  her. 

"  An  insane  girl !  and  what  shall  we  do  with  her  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  After  breakfast  I  will  make  some  inquiries  about  her," 
answered  the  Doctor. 

"  And  leave  her  alone  with  us  ?  that  will  never  do  !  You 
must  take,  her  away  directly,  —  at  least  to  the  Insane 


276         The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen. 

Asylum,  —  somewhere  !  What  if  she  should  grow  wild 
while  you  were  gone  ?  She  might  kill  us  all !  I  will  go 
in  and  tell  her  that  she  cannot  stay  here." 

On  returning  to  the  parlor,  she  found  Isabella  looking 
dreamily  out  of  the  window.  As  Mrs.  Lester  approached, 
she  turned. 

"You  will  let  me  stay  with  you  a  little  while,  will  you 
not?" 

She  spoke  in  a  quiet  tone,  with  an  air  somewhat  com- 
manding. It  imposed  upon  nervous  little  Mrs.  Lester. 
But  she  made  a  faint  struggle. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  rather  go  home,"  she  said. 
•"I  have  no  home  now,"  said  Isabella;  "some  time  I 
may  recover  it ;  but  my  throne  has  been  usurped." 

Mrs.  Lester  looked  round  in  alarm,  to  see  if  the  Doctor 
were  near. 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  come  in  to  breakfast,"  she 
suggested. 

She  was  glad  to  place  the  Doctor  between  herself  and 
their  new  guest. 

Celia  Lester,  the  only  daughter,  came  down  stairs.  She 
had  heard  that  her  father  had  picked  up  a  lost  girl  in  the 
road.  As  she  came  down  in  her  clean  morning  dress,  she 
expected  to  have  to  hold  her  skirts  away  from  some  little 
squalid  object  of  charity.  She  started  when  she  saw  the 
elegant-looking  young  girl  who  sat  at  the  table.  There 
was  something  in  her  air  and  manner  that  seemed  to  make 
the  breakfast  equipage,  and  the  furniture  of  the  room  about 
her,  look  a  little  mean  and  poor.  Yet  the  Doctor  was  very 
well  off,  and  Mrs.  Lester  fancied  she  had  everything  quite 
in  style.  Celia  stole  into  her  place,  feeling  small  in  the 
presence  of  the  stranger. 

After  breakfast,  when  the  Doctor  had  somewhat  refreshed 
himself  by  its  good  cheer  from  his  last  night's  fatigue, 
Isabella  requested  to  speak  with  him. 

"  Let  me  stay  with  you  a  little  while,"  she  asked,  beseech- 
ingly ;  "  I  will  do  everything  for  you  that  you  desire.  You 


The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen.         277 

shall  teach  me  anything ;  —  I  know  I  can  learn  all  that  you 
will  show  me,  all  that  Mrs.  Lester  will  tell  me." 

"  Perhaps  so,  —  perhaps  that  will  be  best,"  answered  the 
Doctor,  "  until  your  friends  inquire  for  you  ;  then  I  must 
send  you  back  to  them." 

"  Very  well,  very  well,"  said  Isabella,  relieved.  "  But  I 
must  tell  you  they  will  not  inquire  for  me.  I  see  you  will 
not  believe  my  story.  If  you  only  would  listen  to  me,  I 
could  tell  it  all  to  you." 

"  That  is  the  only  condition  I  can  make  with  you,"  an- 
swered the  Doctor,  "that  you  will  not  tell  your  story, — 
that  you  will  never  even  think  of  it  yourself.  I  am  a 
physician.  I  know  that  it  is  not  good  for  you  to  dwell 
upon  such  things.  Do  not  talk  of  them  to  me,  nor  to  my 
wife  or  daughter.  Never  speak  of  your  story  to  any  one 
who  comes  here.  It  will  be  better  for  you." 

"Better  for  me,"  said  Isabella,  dreamily,  "that  no  one 
should  know  !  Perhaps  so.  I  am,  in  truth,  captive  to  the 
White  Prince  ;  and  if  he  should  come  and  demand  me,  — 
I  should  be  half  afraid  to  try  the  risks  of  another  game." 

"  Stop,  stop  !  "  exclaimed  the  doctor,  "  you  are  already 
forgetting  the  condition.  I  shall  be  obliged  to  take  you 
away  to  some  retreat,  unless  you  promise  me  — 

"  O,  I  will  promise  you  anything,"  interrupted  Isabella ; 
"  and  you  will  see  that  I  can  keep  my  promise." 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Lester  and  Celia  had  been  holding  a 
consultation. 

"  I  think  she  must  be  some  one  in  disguise,"  suggested 
Celia. 

Celia  was  one  of  the  most  unromantic  of  persons.  Both 
she  and  her  mother  had  passed  their  lives  in  an  unvarying 
routine  of  duties.  Neither  of  them  had  ever  found  time 
from  their  sewing  even  to  read.  Celia  had  her  books  of 
history  laid  out,  that  she  meant  to  take  up  when  she  should 
get  through  her  work;  but  it  seemed  hopeless  •  that  this 
time  would  ever  come.  It  had  never  come  to  Mrs.  Lester, 
and  she  was  now  fifty  years  old.  Celia  had  never  read  any 


278         The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen. 

novels.  She  had  tried  to  read  them,  but  never  was  inter- 
ested in  them.  So  she  had  a  vague  idea  of  what  romance 
was,  conceiving  of  it  only  as  something  quite  different 
from  her  every-day  life.  For  this  reason  the  unnatural 
event  that  was  taking  place  this  very  day  was  gradually 
appearing  to  her  something  possible  and  natural.  Because 
she  knew  there  was  such  a  thing  as  romance,  and  that  it 
was  something  quite  beyond  her  comprehension,  she  was 
the  more  willing  to  receive  this  event  quietly  from  finding 
it  incomprehensible. 

"We  can  let  her  stay  here  to-day,  at  least,"  said  Mrs. 
Lester.  "We  will  keep  John  at  work  in  the  front  door- 
yard,  in  case  we  should  want  him.  And  I  will  set  Mrs. 
Anderson's  boy  to  weeding  in  the  border ;  we  can  call  him, 
if  we  should  want  to  send  for  help." 

She  was  quite  ashamed  of  herself,  when  she  had  uttered 
these  words,  and  Isabella  walked  into  the  room,  so  com- 
posed, so  refined  in  her  manners. 

"  The  Doctor  says  I  may  stay  here  a  little  while,  if  you 
will  let  me,"  said  Isabella,  as  she  took  Mrs.  Lester's  hands. 

"We  will  try  to  make  you  comfortable,"  replied  Mrs. 
Lester. 

"  He  says  you  will  teach  me  many  things,  —  I  think  he 
said,  how  to  sew." 

"  How  to  sew  !  Was  it  possible  she  did  not  know  how 
to  sew  ?  "  Celia  thought  to  herself,  "  How  many  servants 
she  must  have  had,  never  to  have  learned  how  to  sew, 
herself!" 

And  this  occupation  was  directly  provided,  while  the 
Doctor  set  forth  on  his  day's  duties,  and  at  the  same  time 
to  inquire  about  the  strange  apparition  of  the  young  girl. 
He  was  so  convinced  that  there  was  a  vein  of  insanity 
about  her,  that  he  was  very  sure  that  questioning  her  only 
excited  her  the  more.  Just  as  he  had  parted  from  her, 
some  compunction  seized  her,  and  she  followed  him  to  the 
door. 

"There  is  my  father,"  said  she. 


The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen.         279 

"Your  father!  where  shall  I  find  him?"  asked  the 
Doctor. 

"  O,  he  could  not  help  me,"  she  replied  ;  "  it  is  a  long 
time  since  he  has  been  able  to  direct  affairs.  He  has 
scarcely  been  conscious  of  my  presence,  and  will  hardly 
feel  my  absence,  his  mind  is  so  weak." 

"  But  where  can  I  find  him  ?  "  persisted  the  Doctor. 

"He  did  not  come  out,"  said  Isabella;  "the  White 
Queen  would  not  allow  it,  indeed." 

"  Stop,  stop  !  "  exclaimed  the  Doctor,  "  we  are  on  forbid- 
den ground." 

He  drove  away. 

"  So  there  is  insanity  in  the  family,"  he  thought  to  him- 
self. "  I  am  quite  interested  in  this  case.  A  new  form  of 
monomania  !  I  should  be  quite  sorry  to  lose  sight  of  it. 
I  shall  be  loath  to  give  her  up  to  her  friends." 

But  he  was  not  yet  put  to  that  test.  No  one  could  give 
him  any  light  with  regard  to  the  strange  girl.  He  went 
first  to  the  Willows,  and  found 'there  so  much  confusion 
that  he  could  hardly  persuade  any  one  to  listen  to  his 
questions.  Mrs.  Fogerty's  brother,  the  geologist,  had  been 
riding  that  morning,  and  had  fallen  from  his  horse  and 
broken  his  leg.  The  Doctor  arrived  just  in  time  to  be  of 
service  in  setting  it.  Then  he  must  linger  some  time  to 
see  that  the  old  gentleman  was  comfortable,  so  that  he  was 
obliged  to  stay  nearly  the  whole  morning.  He  was  much 
amused  at  the  state  of  disturbance  in  which  he  left  the 
family.  The  whole  house  was  in  confusion,  looking  after 
some  lost  chessmen. 

"  There  was  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Fogerty,  apologetically, 
"that  would  soothe  her  brother  so  much  as  a  game  of 
chess.  That,  perhaps,  might  keep  him  quiet.  He  would 
be  willing  to  play  chess  with  Mr.  Fogerty  by  the  day  to- 
gether. It  was  so  strange  !  they  had  a  game  the  night 
before,  and  now  some  of  the  pieces  could  not  be  found. 
Her  brother  had  lost  the  game,  and  to-day  he  was  so  eager 
to  take  his  revenge  ! 


280          TJie  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen. 

"  How  absurd  ! "  thought  the  Doctor  ;  "  what  trifling 
things  people  interest  themselves  in  !  Here  is  this  old  man 
more  disturbed  at  losing  his  game  of  chess  than  he  is  at 
breaking  his  leg.  It  is  different  in  my  profession,  where 
one  deals  with  life  and  death.  Here  is  this  young  girl's 
fate  in  my  hands,  and  they  talk  to  me  of  the  loss  of  a  few 
paltry  chessmen  ! " 

The  "  foreign  people  "  at  the  cottage  knew  nothing  of 
Isabella.  No  one  had  seen  her  the  night  before,  or  at  any 
time.  Dr.  Lester  even  drove  ten  miles  to  Dr.  Giles's 
Retreat  for  the  Insane,  to  see  if  it  were  possible  that  a 
patient  could  have  wandered  away  from  there.  Dr.  Giles 
was  deeply  interested  in  the  account  Dr.  Lester  gave.  He 
would  very  gladly  take  such  a  person  under  his  care. 

"  No,"  said  Dr.  Lester,  "  I  will  wait  awhile.  I  am  inter- 
ested in  the  young  girl.  It  is  not  possible  but  that  I  shall 
in  time  find  out  from  her,  by  chance,  perhaps,  who  her 
friends  are,  and  where  she  came  from.  She  must  have 
wandered  away  in  some  delirium  of  fever,  —  but  it  is  very 
strange,  for  she  -appears  perfectly  calm  now.  Yet  I  hardly 
know  in  what  state  I  shall  find  her." 

He  returned  to  find  her  very  quiet  and  calm,  learning 
from  his  wife  and  daughter  how  to  sew.  She  seemed 
deeply  interested  in  this  new  occupation,  and  had  g^ven 
all  her  time  and  thought  to  it.  Celia  and  her  mother 
privately  confided  to  the  Doctor  their  admiration  of  their 
strange  guest.  Her  ways  were  so  graceful  and  beautiful ! 
all  that  she  said  seemed  so  new  and  singular !  The  Doc- 
tor, before  he  went  away,  had  -exhorted  Mrs.  Lester  and 
Celia  to  ask  her  no  questions  about  her  former  life,  and 
everything  had  gone  on  very  smoothly.  And  everything 
went  on  as  smoothly  for  some  weeks.  Isabella  seemed 
willing  to  be  as  silent  as  the  Doctor  upon  all  exciting  sub- 
jects. She  appeared  to  be  quite  taken  up  with  her  sewing, 
much  to  Mrs.  Lester's  delight. 

"  She  will  turn  out  quite  as  good  a  seamstress  as  Celia," 
said  she  to  the  Doctor.  "  She  sews  steadily  all  the  time, 


The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen.         281 

and  nothing  seems  to  please  her  so  much  as  to  finish  a 
piece  of  work.  She  will  be  able  to  do  much  more  than  her 
own  sewing,  and  may  prove  quite  a  help  to  us." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  if  anything 
can  be  a  help,  to  prevent  you  and  Celia  from  working  your- 
selves to  death.  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  can  ever  have  done 
with  that  eternal  sewing.  It  is  time  that  Celia  should  do 
something  about  cultivating  her  mind." 

"  Celia's  mind  is  so  well  regulated,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Lester. 

"We  won't  discuss  that,"  continued  the  Doctor,  —  "we 
never  come  to  an  agreement  there.  I  was  going  on  to  say 
theft  I  am  becoming  so  interested  in  Isabella,  that  I  feel 
towards  her  as  if  she  were  my  own.  If  she  is'  of  help  to 
the  family,  that  is  very  well,  —  it  is  the  best  thing  for  her 
to  be'  able  to  make  herself  of  use.  But  I  don't  care  to 
make  any  profit  to  ourselves  out  of  her  help.  Somehow  I 
begin  to  think  of  her  as  belonging  to  us.  Certainly  she 
belongs  to  nobody  else.  Let  us  treat  her  as  our  own  child. 
We  have  but  one,  yet  God  has  given  us  means  enough  to 
care  for  many  more.  I  confess  I  should  find  it  hard  to 
give  Isabella  up  to  any  one  else.  I  like  to  find  her  when  I 
come  home,  —  it  is  pleasant  to  look  at  her." 

"And  I,. too,  love  her,"  said  Mrs.  Lester.  "  I  like  to  see 
her  as  she  sits  quietly  at  her  work." 

So  Isabella  went  on  learning  what  it  was  to  be  one  of 
the  family,  and  becoming,  as  Mrs.  Lester  remarked,  a  very 
experienced  seamstress.  She  seldom  said  anything  as  she 
sat  at  her  work,  but  seemed  quite  occupied  with  her  sew- 
ing ;  while  Mrs.  Lester  and  Celia  kept  up  a  stream  of 
conversation,  seldom  addressing  Isabella,  as,  indeed,  they 
had  few  topics  in  common. 

One  day,  Celia  and  Isabella  were  sitting  together. 

"  Have  you  always  sewed  ?  "  asked  Isabella. 

"  O,  yes,"  answered  Celia,  —  "  since  I  was  quite  a  child." 

"  And  do  you  remember  when  you  were  a  child  ?  "  asked 
Isabella,  laying  down  her  work. 


282         The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen. 

"  O,  yes,  indeed,"  said  Celia ;  "  I  used  to  make  all  my 
doll's  dresses  myself." 

"  Your  doll's  dresses  !  "  repeated  Isabella. 

"  O,  yes,"  replied  Celia,  —  "  I  was  not  ashamed  to  play 
with  dolls  in  that  way." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  some  dolls,"  said  Isabella. 

"  I  will  show  you  my  large  doll,"  said  Celia ;  "  I  have 
always  kept  it,  because  I  fitted  it  out  with  such  a  nice  set 
of  clothes.  And  I  keep  it  for  children  to  play  with." 

She  brought  her  doll,  and  Isabella  handled  it  and  looked 
at  it  with  curiosity. 

"  So  you  dressed  this,  and  played  with  it,"  said  Isabella, 
inquiringly,  "and  moved  it  about  as  one  would  move  a 
piece  at  chess  ?  " 

Celia  started  at  this  word  "  chess."  It  was  one  of  the 
forbidden  words.  But  Isabella  went  on  :  — 

"  Suppose  this  doll  should  suddenly  have  begun  to  speak, 
to  move,  and  walk  round,  would  not  you  have  liked  it  ?  " 

"  O,  no  !  "  exclaimed  Celia.  "  What !  a  wooden  thing 
speak  and  move  !  It  would  have  frightened  me  very 
much." 

"  Why  should  it  not  speak,  if  it  has  a  mouth,  and  walk, 
if  it  has  feet  ?  "  asked  Isabella. 

"  What  foolish  questions  you  ask  !  "  exclaimed  Celia,  "  of 
course  it  has  not  life." 

"  O,  life,  —  that  is  it !  "  said  Isabella.  "  Well  what  is 
life  ?  " 

"  Life  !  why  it  is  what  makes  us  live,"  answered  Celia. 
•*  Of  course  you  know  what  life  is." 

"No,  I  don't  know,"  said  Isabella,  "  But  I  have  been 
thinking  about  it  lately,  while  I  have  been  sewing,  —  what 
it  is." 

"  But  you  should  not  think,  you  should  talk  more,  Isa- 
bella, said  Celia,  ."  Mamma  and  I  talk  while  we  are  at 
work,  but  you  are  always  very  silent." 

"  But  you  think  sometimes  ?  "  asked  Isabella. 

"  Not  about  such  things,"  replied  Celia.  "  I  have  to 
think  about  my  work." 


The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen.         283 

"  But  your  father  thinks,  I  suppose,  when  he  comes  home 
and  sits  in  his  study  alone  ?  " 

"  O,  he  reads  when  he  goes  into  his  study,  —  he  reads 
books  and  studies  them,"  said  Celia. 

"  Do  you  know  how  to  read  ?  "  asked  Isabella. 

"  Do  I  know  how  to  read  !  "  cried  Celia,  angrily. 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  Isabella,  quickly,  "  but  I  never  saw 
you  reading.  I  thought  perhaps  —  women  are  so  different 
here  !  " 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence,  for  she  saw  Celia  was 
really  angry.  Yet  she  had  no  idea  of  hurting  her  feelings. 
She  had  tried  to  accommodate  herself  to  her  new  circum- 
stances. She  had  observed  a  great  deal,  and  had  never 
been  in  the  habit  of  asking  questions.  Celia  was  disturbed 
at  having  it  supposed  that  she  did  not  know  how  to  read ; 
therefore  it  must  be  a  very  important  thing  to  know  how  to 
read,  and  she  determined  she  must  learn.  She  applied  to 
the  Doctor.  He  was  astonished  at  her  entire  ignorance, 
but  he  was  very  glad  to  help  her.  Isabella  gave  herself 
up  to  her  reading,  as  she  had  done  before  to  her  sewing. 
The  Doctor  was  now  the  gainer.  All  the  time  he  was 
away,  Isabella  sat  in  his  study,  poring  over  her  books ; 
when  he  returned*,  she  had  a  famous  lesson  to  recite  to  him. 
Then  he  began  to  tell  her  of  books  that  he  was  interested 
in.  He  made  Celia  come  in,  for  a  history  class.  It  was 
such  a  pleasure  to  him  to  find  Isabella  interested  in  what 
he  could  tell  her  of  history ! 

"All  this  really  happened,"  said  Isabella  to  Celia  once,  — 
"  these  people  really  lived  !  " 

"  Yes,  but  they  died,"  responded  Celia,  in  an  indifferent 
tone,  —  "  and  ever  so  long  ago,  too  !  " 

"But  did  they  die,"  asked  Isabella,  "if  we  can  talk 
about  them,  and  imagine  how  they  looked  ?  They  live  for 
us  as  much  as  they  did  then." 

"  That  I  can't  understand,"  said  Celia.  "  My  uncle  saw 
Napoleon  when  he  was  in  Europe,  long  ago.  But  I  never 
saw  Napoleon.  He  is  dead  and  gone  to  me,  just  as  much 
as  Alexander  the  Great." 


284         The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen. 

"  Well,  who  does  live,  if  Alexander  the  Great,  if  Napoleon, 
and  Columbus  do  not  live  ?  "  asked  Isabella,  impatiently. 

"Why,  papa  and  mamma  live,"  answered  Celia,  "and 
you  —  " 

"And  the  butcher,"  interrupted  Isabella,  "because  he 
brings  you  meat  to  eat ;  and  Mr.  Spool,  because  he  keeps 
the  thread  store.  Thank  you  for  putting  me  in,  too ! 
Once  —  " 

"  Once  !  "  answered  Celia,  in  a  dignified  tone,  "  I  suppose 
once  you  lived  in  a  grander  circle,  and  it  appears  to  you  we 
have  nobody  better  than  Mr.  Spool  and  the  butcher." 

Isabella  was  silent,  and  thought  of  her  "circle,"  her 
former  circle.  The  circle  here  was  large  enough,  the  cir- 
cumference not  very  great,  but  there  were  as  many  points 
in  it  as  in  a  larger  one.  There  were  pleasant,  motherly 
Mrs.  Gibbs,  and  her  agreeable  daughters,  —  the  Gresham 
boys,  just  in  college,  —  the  Misses  Tarletan,  fresh  from  a 
New  York  boarding-school,  —  Mr.  Lovell,  the  young  minis- 
ter, —  and  the  old  Misses  Pendleton,  that  made  raspberry- 
jam,  —  together  with  Celia's  particular  friends,  Anna  and 
Selina  Mountfort,  who  had  a  great  deal  of  talking  with 
Celia  in  private,  but  not  a  word  to  say  to  anybody  in  the 
parlor.  All  these,  with  many  others  in  the  background, 
had  been  speculating  upon  the  riddle  that  Isabella  pre- 
sented, —  "  Who  was  she  ?  and  where  did  she  come  from  ?  " 

Nobody  found  any  satisfactory  answer.  Neither  Celia 
nor  her  mother  would  disclose  anything.  It  is  a  great 
convenience  in  keeping  a  secret,  not  to  know  what  it  is. 
One  can't  easily  tell  what  one  does  not  know. 

"  The  Doctor  really  has  a  treasure  in  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ter," said  Mrs.  Gibbs,  "  they  keep  his  secrets  so  well ! 
Neither  of  them  will  lisp  a  word  about  this  handsome 
Isabella." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  she  is  the  daughter  of  an  Italian  refu- 
gee," said  one  of  the  Misses  Tarletan.  "  We  saw  a  number 
of  Italian  refugees  in  New  York." 

This  opinion   became    prevalent  in   the  neighborhood. 


The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen.         285 

That  Dr.  Lester  should  be  willing  to  take  charge  of  an 
unknown  girl  did  not  astonish  those  who  knew  of  his  many 
charitable  deeds.  It  was  not  more  than  he  had  done  for 
his  cousin's  child,  who  had  no  especial  claim  upon  him. 
He  had  adopted  Lawrence  Egerton,  educated  him,  sent 
him  to  college,  and  was  giving  him  every  advantage  in  his 
study  of  the  law.  In  the  end  Lawrence  would  probably 
marry  Celia  and  the  pretty  property  that  the  Doctor  would 
leave  behind  for  his  daughter. 

"  She  is  one  of  my  patients,"  the  Doctor  would  say,  to 
any  one  who  asked  him  about  her. 

The  tale  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  an  Italian  refugee 
became  more  rife  after  Isabella  had  begun  to  study  Italian. 
She  liked  to  have  the  musical  Italian  words  linger  on  her 
tongue.  She  quoted  Italian  poetry,  read  Italian  history. 
In  conversation,  she  generally  talked  of  the  present,  rarely 
pf  the  past  or  of  the  future.  She  listened  with  wonder  to 
those  who  had  a  talent  for  reminiscence.  How  rich  their 
past  must  be,  that  they  should  be  willing  to  dwell  in  it ! 
Her  own  she  thought  very  meagre.  If  she  wanted  to  live  in 
the  past,  it  must  be  in  the  past  of  great  men,  not  in  that  of 
her  own  little  self.  So  she  read  of  great  painters  and  great 
artists,  and  because  she  read  of  them  she  talked  of  them. 
Other  people,  in  referring  to  by-gone  events,  would  say, 
"When  I  was  in  Trenton  last  summer,"  —  "In  Cuba  the 
spring  that  we  were  there  "  ;  but  Isabella  would  say,  "  When 
Raphael  died,  or  when  Dante  lived."  Everybody  liked  to 
talk  with  her,  —  laughed  with  her  at  her  enthusiasm.  There 
was  something  inspiring,  too,  in  this  enthusiasm ;  it  com- 
pelled attention,  as  her  air  and  manner  always  attracted 
notice.  By  her  side,  the  style  and  elegance  of  the  Misses 
Tarletan  faded  out ;  here  was  a  moon  that  quite  extin- 
guished the  light  of  their  little  tapers.  She  became  the 
centre  of  admiration  ;  the  young  girls  admired  her,  as  they 
are  prone  to  admire  some  one  particular  star.  She  never 
courted  attention,  but  it  was  always  given. 

"  Isabella  attracts  everybody,"  said  Celia  to  her  mother. 


286         The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen. 

"  Even  the  old  Mr.  Spencers,  who  have  never  been  touched 
by  woman  before,  follow  her,  and  act  just  as  she  wills." 

Little  Celia,  who  had  been  quite  a  belle  hitherto,  sunk 
into  the  shade  by  the  side  of  the  brilliant  Isabella.  Yet 
she  followed  willingly  in  the  sunny  wake  that  Isabella  left 
behind.  She  expanded  somewhat,  herself,  for  she  was 
quite  ashamed  to  know  nothing  of  all  that  Isabella  talked 
about  so  earnestly.  The  sewing  gave  place  to  a  little  read- 
ing, to  Mrs.  Lester's  horror.  The  Mountforts  and  the 
Gibbses  met  with  Isabella  and  Celia  to  read  and  study,  and 
went  into  town  with  them  to  lectures  and  to  concerts.  - 

A  winter  passed  away  and  another  summer  came.  Still 
Isabella  was  at  Dr.  Lester's  ;  and  with  the  lapse  of  time 
the  harder  did  it  become  for  the  Doctor  to  question  her 
of  her  past  history,  —  the  more,  too,  was  she  herself  weaned 
from  it. 

The  young  people  had  been  walking  in  the  garden  one 
evening. 

"  Let  me  sit  by  you  here  in  the  porch,"  said  Lawrence 
Egerton  to  Celia,  —  "I  want  rest,  for  body  and  spirit.  I 
am  always  in  a  battle-field  when  I  am  talking  with  Isabella. 
I  must  either  fight  with  her  or  against  her.  She  insists  on 
my  fighting  all  the  time.  I  have  to  keep  my  weapons 
bright,  ready  for  use,  every  moment.  She  will  lead  me, 
too,  in  conversation,  sends  me  here,  orders  me  there.  I 
feel  like  a  poor  knight  in  chess,  under  the  sway  of  a 
queen  —  " 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  chess,"  said  Celia,  curtly. 

"  It  is  a  comfort  to  have  you  a  little  ignorant,"  said  Law- 
rence. "  Please  stay  in  'bliss  awhile.  It  is  repose,  it  is 
refreshment.  Isabella  drags  one  into  the  company  of  her 
heroes,  and  then  one  feels  completely  ashamed  not  to  be 
on  more  familiar  terms  with  them  all.  Her  Mazzinis,  her 
Tancreds,  heroes  false  and  true,  —  it  makes  no  difference 
to  her,  —  put  one  into  a  whirl  between  history  and  story. 
What  a  row  she  would  make  in  Italy,  if  she  went  back 
there  1 " 


The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen.         287 

"  What  could  we  do  without  her  ?  "  said  Celia  ;  "  it  was 
so  quiet  and  commonplace  before  she  came  !  " 

"  That  is  the  trouble,"  replied  Lawrence,  "  Isabella  won't 
let  anything  remain  commonplace.  She  pulls  everything 
out  of  its  place,  —  makes  a  hero  or  heroine  out  of  a  piece 
of  clay.  I  don't  want  to  be  in  heroics  all  the  time.  Even 
Homer's  heroes  ate  their  suppers  comfortably.  I  think  it 
was  a  mistake  in  your  father,  bringing  her  here.  Let  her 
stay  in  her  sphere  queening  it,  and  leave  us  poor  mortals 
to  our  bread  and  butter." 

"You  know  you  don't  think  so,"  expostulated  Celia; 
"  you  worship  her  shoe-tie,  the  hem  of  her  garment." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to,"  said  Lawrence,  — "  it  is  a  com- 
pulsory worship.  I  had  rather  be  quiet." 

"  Lazy  Lawrence  !  "  cried  Celia,  "  it  is  better  for  you. 
You  would  be  the  first  to  miss  Isabella.  You  would  find 
us  quite  flat  without  her  brilliancy,  and  would  be  hunting 
after  some  other  excitement." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  Lawrence.  "  But  here  she  comes  to 
goad  us  on  again.  Queen  Isabella,  when  do  the  bull-fights 
begin?" 

"  I  wish  I  were  Queen  Isabella  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Have 
you  read  the  last  accounts  from  Spain  ?  I  was  reading 
them  to  the  Doctor  to-day.  Nobody  knows  what  to  do 
there.  Only  think  what  an  opportunity  for  the  Queen  to 
show  herself  a  queen  !  Why  will  not  she  make  of  herself 
such  a  queen  as  the  great  Isabella  of  Castile  was  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say,"  answered  Lawrence. 

"  Queens  rule  in  chess,"  said  Horace  Gresham.  "  I 
always  wondered  that  the  king  was  made  such  a  poor 
character  there.  He  is  not  only  ruled  by  his  cabinet, 
bishops,  and  knights,  but  his  queen  is  by  far  the  more 
warlike  character." 

"  Whoever  plays  the  game  rules,  —  you  or  Mr.  Egerton," 
said  Isabella,  bitterly;  "it  is  not  the  poor  queen.  She 
must  yield  to  the  power  of  the  moving  hand.  I  suppose 
it  is  so  with  us  women.  We  see  a  great  aim  before  us,  but 
have  not  the  power." 


288          The  Qiieen  of  the  Red  Chessmen. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  exclaimed  Lawrence,  "  it  is  just  the  reverse. 
With  some  women,  —  for  I  won't  be  personal,  —  the  aim, 
as  you  call  it,  is  very  small,  —  a  poor  amusement,  another 
dress,  a  larger  house  — 

"  You  may  stop,"  interrupted  Isabella,  "  for  you  don't 
believe  this.  At  least,  keep  some  of  your  flings  for  the 
women  that  deserve  them  ;  Celia  and  I  don't  accept  them." 

"  Then  we  '11  talk  of  the  last  aim  we  were  discussing,  — 
the  ride  to-morrow." 

The  next  winter  was  passed  by  Mrs.  Lester,  her  daughter, 
and  Isabella  in  Cuba.  Lawrence  Egerton  accompanied 
them  thither,  and  the  Doctor  hoped  to  go  for  them  in  the 
spring.  They  went  on  Mrs.  Lester's  account.  She  had 
worn  herself  out  with  her  household  labors,  —  very  use- 
lessly, the  Doctor  thought,  —  so  he  determined  to  send  her 
away  from  them.  Isabella  and  Celia  were  very  happy  all 
this  winter  and  spring.'  With  Isabella,  Spanish  took  the 
place  of  Italian  studies.  She  liked  talking  in  Spanish. 
They  made  some  friends  among  the  residents,  as  well  as 
among  the  strangers,  particularly  the  Americans.  Of  these 
last,  they  enjoyed  most  the  society  of  Mrs.  Blanchard  and 
her  son,  Otho,  who  were  at  the  same  hotel  with  them. 

The  opera,  too,  was  a  new  delight  to  Isabella,  and  even 
Celia  was  excited  by  it. 

"  It  is  a  little  too  absurd,  to  see  the  dying  scene  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet  sung  out  in  an  opera  !  "  remarked  Lawrence 
Egerton,  one  morning  ;  "  all  the  music  of  the  spheres  could 
not  have  made  that  scene,  last  night,  otherwise  than  su- 
premely ridiculous." 

"  I  am  glad  you  did  not  sit  by  us,  then,"  replied  Celia ; 
"  Isabella  and  I  were  crying." 

"  I  dare  say,"  said  Lawrence.  "  I  should  be  afraid  to 
take  you  to  see  a  tragedy  well  acted.  You  would  both  be 
in  hysterics  before  the  killing  was  over." 

"  I  should  be  really  afraid,"  said  Celia,  "  to  see  Romeo 
and  Juliet  finely  performed.  It  would  be  too  sad." 

"  It  would  be  much  better  to  end  it  -up  comfortably," 


4  The  Queen,  of  the  Red  Chessmen.         289 

said  Lawrence.  "  Why  should  not  Juliet  marry  her  Romeo 
in  peace  ?  " 

"It  would  be  impossible!"  exclaimed  Isabella,  —  "im- 
possible to  bring  together  two  such  hostile  families !  Of 
course  the  result  must  be  a  tragedy." 

"In  romances,"  answered  Lawrence,  "  that  may  be  neces- 
sary ;  but  not  in  real  life." 

"  Why  not  in  real  life  ?  "  asked  Isabella.  "  When  two 
thunder-clouds  meet,  there  must  be  an  explosion." 

"  But  we  don't  have  such  hostile  families  arrayed  against 
each  other  now-a-days,"  said  Lawrence.  "  The  Bianchi 
and  the  Neri  have  died  out ;  unless  the  feud  lives  between 
the  whites  and  the  blacks  of  the  present  day." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  it  has  died  out  everywhere  ? "  asked 
Isabella. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Otho  Blanchard  ;  "  my  mother, 
Bianca  Bianco,  inherits  her  name  from  a  long  line  of  ances- 
try, and  with  it  come  its  hatreds  as  well  as  its  loves." 

"  You  speak  like  an  Italian  or  Spaniard,"  said  Lawrence. 
"  We  are  cold-blooded  Yankees,  and  in  our  slow  veins  such 
passions  do  die  out.  I  should  have  taken  you  for  an 
American  from  your  name." 

"  It  is  our  name  Americanized ;  we  have  made  Americans 
of  ourselves,  and  the  Bianchi  have  become  the  Blanch- 
ards." 

"  The  romance  of  the  family,  then,"  persisted  Lawrence, 
"must  needs  become  Americanized  too.  If  you  were  to 
meet  with  a  lovely  young  lady  of  the  enemy's  race,  I  think 
you  would  be  willing  to  bury  your  sword  in  the  sheath  for 
her  sake." 

"  I  hope  I  should  not  forget  the  honor  of  my  family," 
said  Otho.  "  I  certainly  never  could,  as  long  as  my  mother 
lives  ;  her  feelings  on  the  subject  are  stronger  even  than 
mine." 

"  I  cannot  imagine  the  possibility  of  such  feelings  dying 
out,"  said  Isabella.  "  I  cannot  imagine  such  different  ele- 
ments amalgamating.  It  would  be  like  fire  and  water 
13  s 


290          The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen.  > 

uniting.     Then  there  would  be  no  longer  any  contest ;  the 
game  of  life  would  be  over." 

"Why  will  you  make  out  life  to  be  a  battle  always?" 
exclaimed  Lawrence  ;  "  won't  you  allow  us  any  peace  ?  I 
do  not  find  such  contests  all  the  time,  —  never,  except  when 
I  am  fighting  with  you." 

"  I  had'  rather  fight  with  you  than  against  you,"  said 
Isabella,  laughing.  "  But  when  one  is  not  striving,  one  is 
sleeping." 

"  That  reminds  me  that  it  is  time  for  our  siesta,"  said 
Lawrence  ;  "  so  we  need  not  fight  any  longer." 

Afterwards  Isabella  and  Celia  were  talking  of  their  new 
friend  Otho. 

"  He  does  not  seem  to  me  like  a  Spaniard,"  said  Celia, 
"  his  complexion  is  so  light ;  then,  too,  his  name  sounds 
German." 

"  But  his  passions  are  quick,"  replied  Isabella.  "  How 
he  colored  up  when  he  spoke  of  the  honor  of  his  family  !  " 

"  I  wonder  that  you  like  him,"  said  Celia ;  "  when  he  is 
with  his  mother,  he  hardly  ventures  to  say  his  soul  is  his 
own." 

"  I  don't  like  his  mother,"  said  Isabella ;  "  her  manner 
is  too  imperious  and  unrefined,  it  appears  to  me.  No 
wonder  that  Otho  is  ill  at  ease  in  her  presence.  It  is  evi- 
dent that  her  way  of  talking  is  not  agreeable  to  him.  He 
is  afraid  that  she  will  commit  herself  in  some  way." 

"  But  he  never  stands  up  for  himself,"  answered  Celia ; 
"he  always  yields  to  her.  Now  I  should  not  think  you 
would  like  that." 

"  He  yields  because  she  is  his  mother,"  said  Isabella ; 
"  and  it  would  not  be  becoming  to  contradict  her." 

"  He  yields  to  you,  too,"  said  Celia ;  "  how  happens 
that?" 

"  I  hope  he  does  not  yield  to  me  more  than  is  becoming," 
answered  Isabella,  laughing;  "perhaps  that  is  why  I  like 
him.  After  all,  I  don't  care  to  be  always  sparring,  as  I  am 
with  Lawrence  Egerton.  With  Otho  I  find  that  I  agree 


The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen.         291 

wonderfully  in  many  things.  Neither  of  us  yields  to  the 
other,  neither  of  us  is  obliged  to  convince  the  other." 

"Now  I  should  think. you  would  find  that  stupid,"  said 
Celia.  "  What  becomes  of  this  desire  of  yours  never  to 
rest,  always  to  be  struggling  after  something  ? " 

"  We  might  strive  together,  we  might  struggle  together," 
responded  Isabella. 

She  said  this  musingly,  not  in  answer  to  Celia,  but  to  her 
own  thoughts,  —  as  she  looked  away,  out  from  everything 
that  surrounded  her.  The  passion  for  ruling  had  always 
been  uppermost  in  her  mind  ;  suddenly  there  dawned  upon 
her  the  pleasure  of  being  ruled.  She  became  conscious  of 
the  pleasure  of  conquering  all  things  for  the  sake  of  giving 
all  to  another.  A  new  sense  of  peace  stole  upon  her  mind. 
Before,  she  had  felt  herself  alone,  even  in  the  midst  of  the 
kindness  of  the  home  that  had  been  given  her.  She  had 
never  dared  to  think  or  to  speak  of  the  past,  and  as  little 
of  the  future.  She  had  gladly  flung  herself  into  the  details 
of  every-day  life.  She  had  given  her  mind  to  the  study 
of  all  that  it  required.  She  loved  the  Doctor,  because  he 
was  always  leading  her  on  to  fresh  fields,  always  exciting 
her  to  a  new  knowledge.  She  loved  him,  too,  for  himself, 
for  his  tenderness  and  kindness  to  her.  With  Mrs.  Lester 
and  Celia  she  felt  herself  on  a  different  footing.  They 
admired  her,  but  they  never  came  near  her.  She  led  them, 
and  they  were  always  behind  her. 

With  Otho  she  experienced  a  new  feeling.  He  seemed, 
very  much  as  she  did  herself,  out  of  place  in  the  world  just 
around  him.  He  was  a  foreigner,  —  was  not  yet  acclimated 
to  the  society  about  him.  He  was  willing  to  talk  of  other 
things  than  every-day  events.  He  did  not  talk  of  "  things," 
indeed,  but  he  speculated,  as  though  he  lived  a  separate 
life  from  that  of  mere  eating  and  drinking.  He  was  not 
content  with  what  seemed  to  every-day  people  possible,  but 
was  willing  to  believe  that  there  were  things  not  dreamed 
of  in  their  philosophy. 

"  It  is  a  satisfaction,"  said  Lawrence  once  to  Celia,  "  that 


292         The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen. 

Isabella  has  found  somebody  who  will  go  high  enough  into 
the  clouds  to  suit  her.  Besides,  it  gives  me  a  little  repose." 
"  And  a  secret  jealousy  at  the  same  time  ;  is  it  not  so  ?  " 
asked  Celia.  "He  takes  up  too  much  of  Isabella's  time  to 
please  you." 

"  The  reason  he  pleases  her,"  said  Lawrence,  "  is  because 
he  is  more  womanly  than  manly,  and  she  thinks  women 
ought  to  rule  the  world.  Now  if  the  world  were  made  up 
of  such  as  he,  it  would  be  very  easily  ruled.  Isabella  loves 
power  too  well  to  like  to  see  it  in  others.  Look  at  her  when 
she  is  with  Mrs.  Blanchard  !  It  is  a  splendid  sight  to  see 
them  together!" 

"  How  can  you  say  so  ?  I  am  always  afraid  of  some 
outbreak." 

These  families  were,  however,  so  much  drawn  together, 
that,  when  the  Doctor  came  to  summon  his  wife  and 
daughter  and  Isabella  home,  Mrs.  Blanchard  was  anxious 
to  accompany  them  to  New  England.  She  wondered  if  it 
were  not  possible  to  find  a  country-seat  somewhere  near 
the  Lesters,  that  she  could  occupy  for  a  time.  The  Doctor 
knew  that  the  Willows  was  to  be  vacant  this  spring.  The 
Fogertys  were  all  going  to  Europe,  and  would  be  very 
willing  to  let  their  place. 

So  it  was  arranged  after  their  return.  The  Fogertys  left 
for  Europe,  and  Mrs.  Blanchard  took  possession  of  the 
Willows.  It  was  a  pleasant  walking  distance  from  the 
Lesters,  but  it  was  several  weeks  before  Isabella  made  her 
first  visit  there.  She  was  averse  to  going  into  the  house, 
but,  in  company  with  Celia,  Lawrence,  and  Otho,  walked 
about  the  grounds.  Presently  they  stopped  near  a  pretty 
fountain  that  was  playing  in  the  midst  of  the  garden. 

"  That  is  a  pretty  place  for  an  Undine,"  said  Otho. 

"  The  idea  of  an  Undine  makes  me  shiver,"  said  Law- 
rence. "  Think  what  a  cold-blooded,  unearthly  being  she 
would  be!" 

"  Not  after  she  had  a  soul ! "  exclaimed  Isabella. 

"  An  Undine  with  a  soul ! "  cried  Lawrence.     "  I  con- 


The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen.         293 

ceive  of  them  as  malicious  spirits,  who  live  and  die  as  the 
bubbles  of  water  rise  and  fall." 

"  You  talk  as  if  there  were  such  things  as  Undines,"  said 
Celia.  "  I  remember  once  trying  to  read  the  story  of  Un- 
dine, but  I  never  could  finish  it." 

"  It  ends  tragically,"  remarked  Otho. 

"  Of  course  all  such  stories  must,"  responded  Lawrence  ; 
"  of  course  it  is  impossible  to  bring  the  natural  and  the 
unnatural  together." 

"That  depends  upon  what  you  call  the  natural,"  said 
Otho. 

"  We  should  differ,  I  suppose,"  said  Lawrence,  "  if  we 
tried  to  explain  what  we  each  call  the  natural  I  fancy 
your  'real  life'  is  different  from  mine." 

"Pictures  of  real  life,"  said  Isabella,  "are  sometimes 
pictures  of  horses  and  dogs,  sometimes  of  children  playing, 
sometimes  of  fruits  of  different  seasons  heaped  upon  one 
dish,  sometimes  of  watermelons  cut  open." 

"  That  is  hardly  your  picture  of  real  life,"  said  Lawrence, 
laughing,  —  "a  watermelon  cut  open  !  I  think  you  would 
rather  choose  the  picture  of  the  Water  Fairies  from  the 
Dusseldorf  Gallery." 

"Why  not?"  said  Isabella.  "The  life  we  see  must  be 
very  far  from  being  the  only  life  that  is." 

"  That  is  very  true,"  answered  Lawrence  ;  "  but  let  the 
fairies  live  their  life  by  themselves,  while  we  live  our  life  in 
our  own  way.  Why  should  they  come  to  disturb  our  peace, 
since  we  cannot  comprehend  them,  and  they  certainly  can- 
not comprehend  us  ?  " 

"  You  do  not  think  it  well,  then,"  said  Isabella,  stopping 
in  their  walk,  and  looking  down,  —  "  you  do  not  think  it 
well  that  beings  of  different  natures  should  mingle  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  see  how  they  can,"  replied  Lawrence.  "  I  am 
limited  by  my  senses  ;  I  can  perceive  only  what  they  show 
me.  Even  my  imagination  can  picture  to  me  only  what 
my  senses  can  paint." 

"  Your  senses  !  "  cried  Otho,  contemptuously,  —  "  it  is 


294         The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen. 

very  true,  as  you  confess,  you  are  limited  by  your  senses. 
Is  all  this  beauty  around  you  created  merely  for  you,  —  and 
the  other  insects  about  us?  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  filled 
with  invisible  life." 

"  Do  let  us  go  in  !  "  said  Celia.  "  This  talk,  just  at  twi- 
light, under  the  shade  of  this  shrubbery,  makes  me  shudder. 
I  am  not  afraid  of  the  fairies.  I  never  could  read  fairy 
stories  when  I  was  a  child ;  they  were  tiresome  to  me. 
But  talking  in  this  way  makes  one  timid.  There  might  be 
strollers  or  thieves  under  all  these  hedges." 

They  went  into  the  house,  through  the  hall,  and  different 
apartments,  till  they  reached  the  drawing-room.  Isabella 
stood  transfixed  upon  the  threshold.  It  was  all  so  familiar 
to  her  !  —  everything  as  she  had  known  it  before  !  Over 
the  mantel-piece  hung  the  picture  of  the  scornful  Spanish 
lady ;  a  heavy  bookcase  stood  in  one  corner ;  comfortable 
chairs  and  couches  were  scattered  round  the  room  ;  beauti- 
ful landscapes  against  the  wall  seemed  like  windows  cut 
into  foreign  scenery.  There  was  an  air  of  ease  in  the  room, 
an  old-fashioned  sort  of  ease,  such  as  the  Fogertys  must 
have  loved. 

"  It  is  a  pretty  room,  is  it  not  ?  "  said  Lawrence.  "  You 
look  at  it  as  if  it  pleased  you.  How  much  more  comfort 
there  is  about  it  than  in  the  fashionable  parlors  of  the  day  ? 
It  is  solid,  substantial  comfort." 

"  You  look  at  it  as  if  you  had  seen  it  before,"  said  Otho 
to  Isabella.  "Do  you  know  the  room  impressed  me  in 
that  way,  too  ?  " 

"It  is  singular,"  said  Lawrence,  "the  feeling,  that  'all 
this  has  been  before,'  that  comes  over  one  at  times.  I  have 
heard  it  expressed  by  a  great  many  people." 

"Have  yo.u,  indeed,  ever  had  this  feeling?"  asked  Isa- 
bella. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Lawrence  ;  "  I  say  to  myself  some- 
times, '  I  have  been  through  all  this  before  ! '  and  I  can 
almost  go  on  to  tell  what  is  to  come  next,  —  it  seems  so 
much  a  part  of  my  past  experience." 


The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen.         295 

"  It  is  strange  it  should  be  so  with  you,  —  and  with  you 
too,"  she  said,  turning  to  Otho. 

"  Perhaps  we  are  all  more  alike  than  we  have  thought," 
said  Otho. 

Otho's  mother  appeared,  and  the  conversation  took  an- 
other turn. 

Isabella  did  not  go  to  the  Willows  again,  until  all  the 
Lester  family  were  summoned  there  to  a  large  party  that 
Mrs.  Blanchard  gave.  She  called  it  a  house-warming, 
although  she  had  been  in  the  house  some  time.  It  was  a 
beautiful  evening.  A  clear  moonlight  made  it  as  brilliant 
outside  on  the  lawn  as  the  lights  made  the  house  within. 
There  was  a  band  of  music  stationed  under  the  shrubbery, 
and  those  who  chose  could  dance.  Those  who  were  more 
romantic  wandered  away  down  the  shaded  walks,  and 
listened  to  the  dripping  of  the  fountain. 

Lawrence  and  Isabella  returned  from  a  walk  through  the 
grounds,  and  stopped  a  moment  on  the  terrace  in  front  of 
the  house.  Just  then  a  dark  cloud  appeared  in  the  sky, 
threatening  the  moon.  The  wind,  too,  was  rising,  and 
made  a  motion  among  the  leaves  of  the  trees. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  asked  Lawrence,  "  that  child's  story 
of  the  Fisherman  and  his  Wife  ?  how  the  fisherman  went 
down  to  the  sea-shore,  and  cried  out,  — 

"  '  O  man  of  the  sea, 
Come  listen  to  me  1 
For  Alice,  my  wife, 
The  plague  of  my  life, 
Has  sent  me  to  beg  a  boon  of  thee  ! ' 

The  sea  muttered  and  roared ;  —  do  you  remember  ?  There 
was  always  something  impressive  to  me  in  the  descriptions, 
in  the  old  story,  of  the  changes  in  the  sea,  and  of  the 
tempest  that  rose  up,  more  and  more  fearful,  as  the  fisher- 
man's wife  grew  more  ambitious  and  more  and  more  grasp- 
ing in  her  desires,  each  time  that  the  fisherman  went  down 
to  the  sea-shore.  I  believe  my  first  impression  of  the  sea 
came  from  that.  The  coming  on  of  a  storm  is  always  as- 


296         The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen. 

sociated  with  it.  I  always  fancy  that  it  is  bringing  with  it 
something  beside  the  tempest,  —  that  there  is  something 
ruinous  behind  it." 

"That  is  more  fanciful  than  you  usually  are,"  said  Isa- 
bella ;  "  but,  alas  !  I  cannot  remember  your  story,  for  I 
never  read  it." 

"  That  is  where  your  education  and  Celia's  was  fearfully 
neglected,"  said  Lawrence  ;  "  you  were  not  brought  up  on 
fairy  stories  and  Mother  Goose.  You  have  not  needed 
the  first,  as  Celia  has  ;  but  Mother  Goose  would  have 
given  a  tone  to  your  way  of  thinking,  that  is  certainly 
wanting." 

A  little  while  afterwards,  Isabella  stood  upon  the  balcony 
steps  leading  from  the  drawing-room.  Otho  was  with  her. 
The  threatening  clouds  had  driven  almost  every  one  into 
the  house.  There  was  distant  thunder  and  lightning ; 
but  through  the  cloud-rifts,  now  and  then,  the  moonlight 
streamed  down.  Isabella  and  Otho  had  been  talking 
earnestly,  —  so  earnestly,  that  they  were  quite  unobservant 
of  the  coming  storm,  of  the  strange  lurid  light  that  hung 
around. 

"  It  is  strange  that  this  should  take  place  here  ! "  said 
Isabella,  —  "that  just  here  I  should  learn  that  you  love 
me  !  Strange  that  my  destiny  should  be  completed  in  this 
spot ! " 

"And  this  spot  has  its  strange  associations  with  me," 
said  Otho,  "of  which  I  must  some  time  speak  to  you. 
But  now  I  can  think  only  of  the  present.  Now,  for  the 
first  time,  do  I  feel  what  life  is,  —  now  that  you  have 
promised  to  be  mine ! " 

Otho  was  interrupted  by  a  sudden  .cry.  He  turned  to 
find  his  mother  standing  behind  him. 

"  You  are  here  with  Isabella !  she  has  promised  herself 
to  you  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  It  is  a  fatality,  a  terrible  fatality  ! 
Listen,  Isabella  !  You  are  the  Queen  of  the  Red  Chess- 
men ;  and  he,  Otho,  is  the  King  of  the  White  Chessmen,  — 
and  I,  their  Queen.  Can  there  be  two  queens  ?  Can  there 


The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen.         297 

be  a  marriage  between  two  hostile  families  ?  Do  you  not 
see,  if  there  were  a  marriage  between  the  Reds  and  the 
Whites,  there  were  no  game  ?  Look !  I  have  found  our 
old  prison !  The  pieces  would  all  be  here,  —  but  we,  we 
are  missing !  Would  you  return  to  the  imprisonment  of 
this  poor  box,  —  to  your  old  mimic  life  ?  No,  my  children, 
go  back !  Isabella,  marry  this  Lawrence  Egerton,  who 
loves  you.  You  will  find  what  life  is,  then.  Leave  Otho, 
that  he  may  find  this  same  life  also." 

Isabella  stood  motionless. 

"  Otho,  the  White  Prince  !  Alas  !  where  is  my  hatred  ? 
But  life  without  him  !  Even  stagnation  were  better  !  I 
must  needs  be  captive  to  the  White  Prince  ! " 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  to  Otho.  He  seized  it  pas- 
sionately. At  this  moment  there  was  a  grand  crash  of 
thunder.  A  gust  of  wind  extinguished  at  once  all  the  lights 
in  the  drawing-room.  The  terrified  guests  hurried  into  the 
hall,  into  the  other  rooms. 

"  The  lightning  must  have  struck  the  house  ! "  they  ex- 
claimed. 

A  heavy  rain  followed ;  then  all  was  still.  Everybody 
began  to  recover  his  spirits.  The  servants  relighted  the 
candles.  The  drawing-room  was  found  untenanted.  It 
was  time  to  go  ;  yet  there  was  a  constraint  upon  all  the 
party,  who  were  eager  to  find  their  hostess  and  bid  her 
good-bye. 

But  the  hostess  could  not  be  found  !  Isabella  and  Otho, 
too,  were  missing  !  The  Doctor  and  Lawrence  went  every- 
where, calling  for  them,  seeking  them  in  the  house,  in  the 
grounds.  They  were  nowhere  to  be  found,  —  neither  that 
night,  nor  the  next  day,  nor  ever  afterwards  ! 

The  Doctor  found  in  the  balcony  a  box  of  chessmen 
fallen  down.  It  was  nearly  filled  ;  but  the  red  queen,  and 
the  white  king  and  queen,  were  lying  at  a  little  distance. 
In  the  box  was  the  red  king,  his  crown  fallen  from  his  head, 
himself  broken  in  pieces.  The  Doctor  took  up  the  red 
queen,  and  carried  it  home. 


298          The  Queen  of  the  Red  Chessmen. 

"  Are  you  crazy  ?  "  asked  his  wife.  "  What  are  you  going 
to  do  with  that  red  queen?" 

But  the  Doctor  placed  the  figure  on  his  study-table,  and 
often  gazed  at  it  wistfully. 

Whenever,  afterwards,  as  was  often  the  case,  any  one 
suggested  a  new  theory  to  account  for  the  mysterious  disap- 
pearance of  Isabella  and  the  Blanchards,  the  Doctor  looked 
at  the  carved  image  on  his  table  and  was  silent. 


MISS    LUCINDA. 


UT  that  Solomon  is  out  of  fashion  I  should  quote 
him,  here  and  now,  to  the  effect  that  there  is  a 
time  for  all  things ;  but  Solomon  is  obsolete,  and 
never,  no,  never,  will  I  dare  to  quote  a  dead  language, 
"for  raisons  I  have,"  as  the  exiles  of  Erin  say.  Yet,  in 
spite  of  Solomon  and  Horace,  I  may  express  my  own  less 
concise  opinion,  that  even  in  hard  times,  and  dull  times, 
and  war  times,  there  is  yet  a  little  time  to  laugh,  a  brief 
hour  to  smile  and  love  and  pity,  just  as  through  this  dreary 
easterly  storm,  bringing  clouds  and  rain,  sobbing  against 
casement  and  door  with  the  inarticulate  wail  of  tempests, 
there  comes  now  and  then  the  soft  shine  of  a  sun  behind  it 
all,  a  fleeting  glitter,  an  evanescent  aspect  of  what  has 
been. 

But  if  I  apologize  for  a  story  that  is  nowise  tragic,  nor 
fitted  to  "  the  fashion  of  these  times,"  possibly  somebody 
will  say  at  its  end  that  I  should  also  have  apologized  for  its 
subject,  since  it  is  as  easy  for  an  author  to  treat  his  readers 
to  high  themes  as  vulgar  ones,  and  velvet  can  be  thrown 
into  a  portrait  as  cheaply  as  calico  ;  but  of  this  apology  I 
wash  my  hands.  I  believe  nothing  in  place  or  circum- 
stance makes  romance.  I  have  the  same  quick  sympathy 
for  Biddy's  sorrows  with  Patrick  that  I  have  for  the  Em- 
press of  France  and  her  august,  but  rather  grim  lord  and 
master.  I  think  words  are  often  no  harder  to  bear  than 
"  a  blue  bating,"  and  I  have  a  reverence  for  poor  old  maids 
as  great  as  for  the  nine  Muses.  Commonplace  people  are 


3OO  Miss  Lucinda. 

only  commonplace  from  character,  and  no  position  affects 
'  that.  So  forgive  me  once  more,  patient  reader,  if  I  offer 
to  you  no  tragedy  in  high  life,  no  sentimental  history  of 
fashion  and  wealth,  but  only  a  little  story  about  a  woman 
who  could  not  be  a  heroine. 

Miss  Lucinda  Jane  Ann  Manners  was  a  lady  of  unknown 
age,  who  lived  in  a  place  I  call  Dalton,  in  a  State  of  these 
Disuniting  States,  which  I  do  not  mention  for  good  cause. 
I  have  already  had  so  many  unconscious  personalities  visited 
on  my  devoted  head,  that  but  for  lucidity  I  should  never 
mention  persons  or  places,  inconvenient  as  it  would  be. 
However,  Miss  Lucinda  did  live,  and  lived  by  the  aid  of 
"means,"  which,  in  the  vernacular,  is  money.  Not  a  great 
deal,  it  is  true,  —  five  thousand  dollars  at  lawful  interest, 
and  a  little  wooden  house,  do  not  imply  many  luxuries  even 
to  a  single-woman;  and  it  is  also  true  that  a  little  fine 
sewing  taken  in  helped  Miss  Manners  to  provide  herself 
with  a  few  small  indulgences  otherwise  beyond  her  reach. 
She  had  one  or  two  idiosyncrasies,  as  they  are  politely 
called,  that  were  her  delight.  Plenty  of  dish-towels  were 
necessary  to  her  peace  of  mind  ;  without  five  pair  of 
scissors  she  could  not  be  happy ;  and  Tricopherous  was 
essential  to  her  well-being :  indeed,  she  often  said  she 
would  rather  give  up  coffee  than  Tricopherous,  for  her  hair 
was  black  and  wiry  and  curly,  and  caps  she  abhorred,  so 
that  of  a  winter's  day  her  head  presented  the  most  irrele- 
vant and  volatile  aspect,  each  particular  hair  taking  a  twist 
on  its  own  responsibility,  and  improvising  a  wild  halo  about 
her  unsaintly  face,  unless  subdued  into  propriety  by  the 
aforesaid  fluid. 

I  said  Miss  Lucinda's  face  was  unsaintly,  —  I  mean  un 
like  ancient  saints  as  depicted  by  contemporary  artists : 
modern  and  private  saints  are  after  another  fashion.  I  met 
one  yesterday,  whose  green  eyes,  great  nose,  thick  lips,  and 
sallow  wrinkles,  under  a  bonnet  of  fifteen  years'  standing, 
further  clothed  upon  by  a  scant  merino  cloak  and  cat-skin 
tippet,  would  have  cut  a  sorry  figure  in  the  gallery  of  the 


Miss  Lucinda.  301 

Vatican  or  the  Louvre,  and  put  the  tranquil  Madonna  of 
San  Sisto  into  a  state  of  stunning  antithesis ;  but  if  Saint 
Agnes  or  Saint  Catharine  was  half  as  good  as  my  saint,  I 
am  glad  of  it ! 

No,  there  was  nothing  sublime  and  dolorous  about  Miss 
Manners  ;  her  face  was  round,  cheery,  and  slightly  puckered, 
with  two  little  black  eyes  sparking  and  shining  under  dark 
brows,  a  nose  she  unblushingly  called  pug,  and  a  big  mouth 
with  eminently  white  and  regular  teeth,  which  she  said 
were  such  a  comfort,  for  they  never  ached,  and  never  would 
to  the  end  of  time.  Add  to  this  physiognomy  a  small  and 
rather  spare  figure,  dressed  in  the  cleanest  of  calicoes, 
always  made  in  one  style,  and  rigidly  scorning  hoops, — 
without  a  symptom  of  a  collar,  in  whose  place  (or  it  may 
be  over  which)  she  wore  a  white  cambric  handkerchief, 
knotted  about  her  throat,  and  the  two  ends  brought  into 
subjection  by  means  of  a  little  angular-headed  gold  pin, 
her  sole  ornament,  and  a  relic  of  her  old  father's  days 
of  widowhood,  when  buttons  were  precarious  tenures.  So 
much  for  her  aspect.  Her  character  was  even  more  quaint. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman,  one  of  the  old 
school,  the  last  whose  breeches  and  knee-buckles  adorned 
the  profession,  who  never  "  outlived  his  usefulness,"  nor  lost 
his  godly  simplicity.  Parson  Manners  held  rule  over  an 
obscure  and  quiet  village  in  the  wilds  of  Vermont,  where 
hard-handed  farmers  wrestled  with  rocks  and  forests  for 
their  daily  bread,  and  looked  forward  to  heaven  as  a  land 
of  green  pastures  and  still  waters,  where  agriculture  should 
be  a  pastime,  and  winter  impossible.  Heavy  freshets  from 
the  mountains  that  swelled  their  rushing  brooks  into  annual 
torrents,  and  snow-drifts  that  covered  five-rail  fences  a  foot 
above  the  posts  and  blocked  up  the  turnpike-road  for  weeks, 
caused  this  congregation  fully  to  appreciate  Parson  Man- 
ners's  favorite  hymns,  — 

"There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight," 

and  — 

"  On  Jordan's  stormy  banks  I  stand." 


302  Miss  Luanda. 

Indeed,  one  irreverent,  but  "  pretty  smart  feller,"  who  lived 
on  the  top  of  a  hill  known  as  Drift  Hill,  where  certain 
adventurous  farmers  dwelt  for  the  sake  of  its  smooth  sheep- 
pastures,  was  heard  to  say,  after  a  mighty  sermon  by  Parson 
Manners  about  the  seven-times  heated  furnaces  of  judg- 
ment reserved  for  the  wicked,  that  "  Parson  had  n't  better 
try  to  skeer  Drift-Hillers  with  a  hot  place  ;  't  would  n't  more 
'n  jest  warm  'em  through  down  there,  arter  a  real  snappin' 
winter." 

In  this  out-of-the-way  nook  was  Lucinda  Jane  Ann  born 
and  bred.  Her  mother  was  like  her  in  many  things,  — just 
such  a  cheery,  round-faced  little  body,  but  with  no  more 
mind  than  found  ample  scope  for  itself  in  superintending 
the  affairs  of  house  and  farm,  and  vigorously  "  seeing  to  " 
her  husband  and  child.  So,  while  Mrs.  Manners  baked, 
and  washed,  and  ironed,  and  sewed,  and  knit,  and  set  the 
sweetest  example  of  quiet  goodness  and  industry  to  all  her 
flock,  without  knowing  she  could  set  an  example,-  or  be 
followed  as  one,  the  Parson  amused  himself,  between  ser- 
mons of  powerful  doctrine  and  parochial  duties  of  a  more 
human  interest,  with  educating  Lucinda,  whose  intellect 
was  more  like  his  own  than  her  mother's.  A  strange  train- 
ing it  was  for  a  young  girl,  —  mathematics,  metaphysics, 
Latin,  theology  of  the  driest  sort ;  and  after  an  utter  failure 
at  Greek  and  Hebrew,  though  she  had  toiled  patiently 
through  seven  books  of  the  "y£neid,"  Parson  Manners 
mildly  sniffed  at  the  inferiority  of  the  female  mind,  and 
betook  himself  to  teaching  her  French,  which  she  learned 
rapidly,  and  spoke  with  a  pure  American  accent,  perhaps 
as  pleasing  to  a  Parisian  ear  as  the  hiss  of  Piedmont  or 
the  gutturals  of  Switzerland.  Moreover,  the  minister  had 
been  brought  up,  himself,  in  the  most  scrupulous  refinement 
of  manner ;  his  mother  was  a  widow,  the  last  of  an  "  old 
family,"  and  her  dainty,  delicate  observances  were  inbred, 
as  it  were,  in  her  only  son.  This  sort  of  elegance  is  per- 
haps the  most  delicate  test  of  training  and  descent,  and  all 
these  things  Lucinda  was  taught  from  the  grateful  recollec- 


Miss  Lucinda.  303 

tion  of  a  son  who  never  forgot  his  mother,  through  all  the 
solitary  labors  and  studies  of  a  long  life.  So  it  came  to 
pass,  that,  after  her  mother  died,  Lucinda  grew  more  and 
more  like  her  father,  and,  as  she  became  a  woman,  these 
rare  refinements  separated  her  more  and  more  from  those 
about  her,  and  made  her  necessarily  solitary.  As  for  mar- 
riage, the  possibility  of  such  a  thing  never  crossed  her 
mind ;  there  was  not  a  man  in  the  parish  who  did  not 
offend  her  sense  of  propriety  and  shock  her  taste,  whenever 
she  met  one ;  and  though  her  warm,  kind  heart  made  her 
a  blessing  to  the  poor  and  sick,  her  mother  was  yet  bitterly 
regretted  at  quiltings  and  tea-drinkings,  where  she  had 
been  so  "sociable-like." 

It  is  rather  unfortunate  for  such  a  position  as  Luanda's, 
that,  as  Deacon  Stowell  one  day  remarked  to  her  father, 
"  Natur'  will  be  Natur'  as  much  on  Drift  Hill  as  down  to 
Bosting  "  ;  and  when  she  began  to  feel  that  "  strong  neces- 
sity of  loving  "  that  sooner  or  later  assails  every  woman's 
heart,  there  was  nothing  for  it  to  overflow  on,  when  her 
father  had  taken  his  share.  Now  Lucinda  loved  the  Par- 
son most  devoutly.  Ever  since  the  time  when  she  could 
just  remember  watching  through  the  dusk  his  white  stock- 
ings, as  they  glimmered  across  the  road  to  evening-meeting, 
and  looked  like  a  supernatural  pair  of  legs  taking  a  walk 
on  their  own  responsibility,  twilight  concealing  the  black 
breeches  and  coat  from  mortal  view,  Lucinda  had  regarded 
her  father  with  a  certain  pleasing  awe.  His  long  abstrac- 
tions, his  profound  knowledge,  his  grave,  benign  manners, 
and  the  thousand  daily  refinements  of  speech  and  act  that 
seemed  to  put  him  far  above  the  sphere  of  his  pastorate,  — 
all  these  things  inspired  as  much  reverence  as  affection  ; 
and  when  she  wished  with  all  her  heart  and  soul  she  had 
a  sister  or  a  brother  to  tend  and  kiss  and  pet,  it  never  once 
occurred  to  her  that  any  of  those  tender  familiarities  could 
be  expended  on  her  father :  she  would  as  soon  have  thought 
of  caressing  any  of  the  goodly  angels  whose  stout  legs, 
flowing  curls,  and  impossible  draperies  sprawled  among  the 


304  Miss  Lucinda. 

pictures  in  the  big  Bible,  and  who  excited  her  wonder  as 
much  by  their  garments  as  their  turkey-wings  and  bran- 
dishing arms.  So  she  betook  herself  to  pets,  and  growing 
up  to  the  old-maidenhood  of  thirty-five  before  her  father 
fell  asleep,  was  by  that  time  the  centre  of  a  little  world  of 
her  own,  —  hens,  chickens,  squirrels,  cats,  dogs,  lambs,  and 
sundry  transient  guests  of  stranger  kind ;  so  that,  when 
she  left  her  old  home,  and  removed  to  the  little  house  in 
Dalton  that  had  been  left  her  by  her  mother's  aunt,  and 
had  found  her  small  property  safely  invested  by  means  of 
an  old  friend  of  her  father's,  Miss  Manners  made  one  more 
journey  to  Vermont  to  bring  in  safety  to  their  future  dwell- 
ing a  cat  and  three  kittens,  an  old  blind  crow,  a  yellow 
dog  of  the  true  cur  breed,  and  a  rooster  with  three  hens, 
"real  creepers,"  as  she  often  said,  "none  of  your  long- 
legged,  screaming  creatures." 

Lucinda  missed  her  father,  and  mourned  him  as  con- 
stantly and  faithfully  as  ever  a  daughter  could;  but  her 
temperament  was  more  cheerful  and  buoyant  than  his,  and 
when  once  she  was  quietly  settled  in  her  little  house,  her 
garden  and  her  pets  gave  her  such  full  occupation  that  she 
sometimes  blamed  herself  for  not  feeling  more  lonely  and 
unhappy.  A  little  longer  life  or  a  little  more  experience 
would  have  taught  her  better:  power  to  be  happy  is  the 
last  thing  to  regret.  Besides,  it  would  have  been  hard  to 
be  cheerless  in  that  sunny  little  house,  with  its  queer  old 
furniture  of  three-legged  tables,  high-backed  chairs,  and 
chintz  curtains  where  red  mandarins  winked,  at  blue  pa- 
godas on  a  deep-yellow  ground,  and  birds  of  insane  orni- 
thology pecked  at  insects  that  never  could  have  been 
hatched,  or  perched  themselves  on  blossoms  totally  unknown 
to  any  mortal  flora.  Old  engravings  of  Bartolozzi,  from 
the  stiff  elegances  of  Angelica  Kaufman  and  the  mytholo- 
gies of  Reynolds,  adorned  the  shelf ;  and  the  carpet  in  the 
parlor  was  of  veritable  English  make,  older  than  Lucinda 
herself,  but  as  bright  in  its  fading  and  as  firm  in  its  useful- 
ness as  she.  Up  stairs  the  tiny  chambers  were  decked  with 


Miss  Lucinda.  305 

spotless  white  dimity,  and  rush-bottomed  chairs  stood  in 
each  window,  with  a  strip  of  the  same  old  carpet  by  either 
bedside  ;  and  in  the  kitchen  the  blue  settle  that  had  stood 
by  the  Vermont  fireside  now  defended  this  lesser  hearth 
from  the  draught  of  the  door,  and  held  under  the  seat 
thereof  sundry  ironing-sheets,  the  blanket  belonging  to 
them,  and  good  store  of  ticking  and  worsted  holders.  A 
half-gone  set  of  egg-shell  china  stood  in  the  parlor-close*t, 
—  cups,  and  teapot,  and  sugar-bowl,  rimmed  with  brown 
and  gold  in  a  square  pattern,  and  a  shield  without  blazon 
on  the  side;  the  quaint  tea-caddy  with  its  stopper  stood 
over  against  the  pursy  little  cream-pot,  and  held  up  in  its 
lumps  of  sparkling  sugar  the  oddest  sugar-tongs,  also  a 
family  relic ;  —  beside  this,  six  small  spoons,  three  large 
ones,  and  a  little  silver  porringer  comprised  all  the  "plate" 
belonging  to  Miss  Manners,  so  that  no  fear  of  burglars 
haunted  her,  and  but  for  her  pets  she  would  have  lived  a  life 
of  profound  and  monotonous  tranquillity.  But  this  was  a 
vast  exception';  in  her  life  her  pets  were  the  great  item 
now ;  —  her  cat  had  its  own  chair  in  the  parlor  and  kitchen  ; 
her  dog,  a  rug  and  a  basket  never  to  be  meddled  with  by 
man  or  beast ;  her  old  crow,  its  special  nest  of  flannel  and 
cotton,  where  it  feebly  croaked  as  soon  as  Miss  Lucinda 
began  to  spread  the  little  table'  for  her  meals ;  and  the 
three  kittens  had  their  own  playthings  and  their  own  saucer 
as  punctiliously  as  if  they  had  been  children.  In  fact, 
Miss  Manners  had  a  greater  share  of  kindness  for  beasts 
than  for  mankind.  A  strange  compound  of  learning  and 
unworldliness,  of  queer  simplicity,  native  penetration,  and 
common  sense,  she  had  read  enough  books  to  despise 
human  nature  as  it  develops  itself  in  history  and  theology, 
and  she  had  not  known  enough  people  to  love  it  in  its 
personal  development.  She  had  a  general  idea  that  all 
men  were  liars,  and  that  she  must  be  on  her  guard  against 
their  propensity  to  cheat  and  annoy  a  lonely  and  helpless 
woman ;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  in  her  good  father's  over- 
anxiety  to  defend  her  from  the  snares  of  evil  men  after  his 

T 


306  Miss  Lucinda. 

death,  his  teachings  had  given  her  opinion  this  bias,  and 
he  had  forgotten  to  tell  her  how  kindly  and  how  true  he 
had  found  many  of  his  own  parishioners,  how  few  inclined  to 
harm  or  pain  him.  So  Miss  Lucinda  made  her  entrance 
into  life  at  Dalton,  distrustful,  but  not  suspicious ;  and 
after  a  few  attempts  on  the  part  of  the  women  who  were 
her  neighbors  to  be  friendly  or  intimate,  they  gave  her  up 
as  impracticable  :  not  because  she  was  impolite  or  unkind  : 
they  did  not  themselves  know  why  they  failed,  though  she 
could  have  told  them ;  for,  old  maid  as  she  was,  poor  and 
plain  and  queer,  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  associate 
familiarly  with  people  who  put  their  teaspoons  into  the 
sugar-bowl,  helped  themselves  with  their  own  knives  and 
forks,  gathered  up  bits  of  uneaten  butter  and  returned  them 
to  the  plate  for  next  time,  or  replaced  on  the  dish  pieces  of 
cake  half  eaten  or  cut  with  the  knives  they  had  just  intro- 
duced into  their  mouths.  Miss  Lucinda's  code  of  minor 
morals  would  have  forbidden  her  to  drink  from  the  -same 
cup  with  a  queen,  and  have  considered  a  pitchfork  as  suita- 
ble as  a  knife  to  eat  with,  nor  would  she  have  offered  to  a 
servant  the  least  thing  she  had  touched  with  her  own  lips 
or  her  own  implements  of  eating ;  and  she  was  too  deli- 
cately bred  to  look  on  in  comfort  where  such  things  were 
practised.  Of  course  these  women  were  not  ladies ;  and 
though  many  of  them  had  kind  hearts  and  warm  impulses 
of  goodness,  yet  that  did  not  make  up  to  her  for  their  social 
misdemeanors,  and  she  drew  herself  more  into  her  own 
little  shell,  and  cared  more  for  her  garden  and  her  chickens, 
her  cats  and  her  dog,  than  for  all  the  humanity  of  Dalton 
put  together. 

Miss  Manners  held  her  flowers  next  dearest  to  her  pets, 
and  treated  them  accordingly.  Her  garden  was  the-  most 
brilliant  bit  of  ground  possible.  It  was  big  enough  to  hold 
one  flourishing  peach-tree,  one  Siberian  crab,  and  a  solitary 
egg-plum ;  while  under  these  fruitful  boughs  bloomed  moss- 
roses  in  profusion,  of  the  dear  old-fashioned  kind,  every 
deep  pink  bud  with  its  clinging  garment  of  green  breathing 


Miss  Lucinda.  307 

out  the  richest  odor ;  close  by,  the  real  white  rose,  which 
fashion  has  banished  to  country  towns,  unfolded  its  cups 
of  pearl  flushed  with  yellow  sunrise  to  the  heart ;  and  by 
its  side  its  damask  sister  waved  long  sprays  of  bloom  and 
perfume.  Tulips,  dark-purple  and  cream-color,  burning 
scarlet  and  deep-maroon,  held  their  gay  chalices  up  to 
catch  the  dew;  hyacinths,  blue,  white,  and  pink,  hung 
heavy  bells  beneath  them ;  spiced  carnations  of  rose  and 
garnet  crowded  their  bed  in  July  and  August,  heart's-ease 
fringed  the  walks,  May  honeysuckles  clambered  over  the 
board-fence,  and  monthly  honeysuckles  overgrew  the  porch 
at  the  back-door,  making  perpetual  fragrance  from  their 
moth-like  horns  of  crimson  and  ivory.  Nothing  inhabited 
those  beds  that  was  not  sweet  and  fair  and  old-fashioned. 
Gray-lavender-bushes  sent  up  purple  spikes  in  the  middle 
of  the  garden  and  were  duly  housed  in  winter,  but  these 
were  the  sole  tender  plants  admitted,  and  they  pleaded 
their  own  cause  in  the  breath  of  the  linen-press  and  the 
bureau-drawers  that  held  Miss  Luanda's  clothes.  Beyond 
the  flowers,  utility  blossomed  in  a  row  of  bean-poles,  a 
hedge  of  currant-bushes  against  the  farther  fence,  carefully 
tended  cauliflowers,  and  onions  enough  to  tell  of  their  use 
as  sparing  as  their  number;  a  few  deep-red  beets  and 
golden  carrots  were  all  the  vegetables  beside  :  Miss  Lucinda 
never  ate  potatoes  or  pork. 

Her  housekeeping,  but  for  her  pets,  would  have  been 
the  proper  housewifery  for  a  fairy.  Out  of  her  fruit  she 
annually  conserved  miracles  of  flavor  and  transparence,  — • 
great  plums  like  those  in  Aladdin's  garden,  of  shining  topaz, 
—  peaches  tinged  with  the  odorous  bitter  of  their  pits,  and 
clear  as  amber,  —  crimson  crabs  floating  in  their  own  ruby 
sirup,  or  transmuted  into  jelly  crystal  clear,  yet  breaking 
with  a  grain,  —  and  jelly  from  the  acid  currants  to  garnish 
her  dinner-table  or  refresh  the  fevered  lips  of  a  sick  neigh- 
bor. It  was  a  study  to  visit  her  tiny  pantry,  where  all  these 
"lucent  sirops"  stood  in  tempting  array,  —  where  , spices, 
and  sugar,  and  tea,  in  their  small  jars,  flanked  the  sweet- 


308  Miss  Lucinda. 

meats,  and  a  jar  of  glass  showed  its  store  of  whitest  honey, 
and  another  stood  filled  with  crisp  cakes.  Here  always  a 
loaf  or  two  of  home-made  bread  lay  rolled  in  a  snowy 
cloth,  and  another  was  spread  over  a  dish  of  butter ;  pies 
were  not  in  favor  here,  —  nor  milk,  save  for  the  cats ;  salt 
fish  Miss  Manners  never  could  abide,  —  her  savory  taste 
allowed  only  a  bit  of  rich  old  cheese,  or  thin  scraps  of 
hung  beef,  with  her  bread  and  butter;  sauces  and  spices 
were  few  in  her  repertory,  but  she  cooked  as  only  a  lady 
can  cook,  and  might  have  asked  Soyer  himself  to  dinner. 
For,  verily,  after  much  meditation  and  experience,  I  have 
divined  that  it  takes  as  much  sense  and  refinement  and 
talent  to  cook  a  dinner,  wash  and  wipe  a  dish,  make  a  bed 
as  it  should  be  made,  and  dust  a  room  as  it  should  be 
dusted,  as  goes  to  the  writing  of  a  novel  or  shining  in  high 
society. 

But  because  Miss  Lucinda  Manners  was  reserved  and 
"  unsociable,"  as  the  neighbors  pronounced  her,  I  did  not, 
therefore,  mean  to  imply  that  she  was  inhuman.  No  neigh- 
bor of  hers,,  local  or  Scriptural,  fell  ill,  without  an  immedi- 
ate offer  of  aid  from  her :  she  made  the  best  gruel  known 
to  Dalton  invalids,  sent  the  ripest  fruit  and  the  sweetest 
flowers  :  and  if  she  could  not  watch  with  the  sick,  because 
it  interfered  with  her  duties  at  home  in  an  unpleasant  and 
inconvenient  way,  she  would  sit  with  them  hour  after  hour 
in  the  day-time,  and  wait  on  all  their  caprices  with  the 
patient  tenderness  of  a  mother.  Children  she  always  eyed 
with  strange  wistfulness,  as  if  she  longed  to  kiss  them, 
but  did  n't  know  how ;  yet  no  child  was  ever  invited  across 
her  threshold,  for  the  yellow  cur  hated  to  be  played  with, 
and  children  always  torment  kittens. 

So  Miss  Lucinda  wore  on  happily  toward  the  farther  side 
of  the  middle  ages.  One  after  another  of  her  pets  passed 
away  and  was  replaced,  the  yellow  cur  barked  his  last 
currish  signal,  the  cat  died  and  her  kittens  came  to  various 
ends  of  time  or  casualty,  the  crow  fell  away  to  dust  and 
was  too  old  to  stuff,  and  the  garden  bloomed  and  faded  ten 


Miss  Lucinda.  309 

.times  over,  before  Miss  Manners  found  herself  to  be  forty- 
six  years  old,  which  she  heroically  acknowledged  one  fine 
day  to  the  census-taker.  But  it  was  not  this  consciousness, 
nor  its  confession,  that  drew  the  dark  brows  so  low  over 
Miss  Lucinda's  eyes  that  day ;  it  was  quite  another  trouble, 
and  one  that  wore  heavily  on  her  mind,  as  we  shall  proceed 
to  explain.  For  Miss  Manners,  being,  like  all  the  rest  of 
her  sex,  quite  unable  to  do  without  some  masculine  help, 
had  employed,  for  some  seven  years,  an  old  man  by  the 
name  of  Israel  Slater,  to  do  her  "  chores,"  as  the  vernacular 
hath  it.  It  is  a  mortifying  thing,  and  one  that  strikes  at 
the  roots  of  Women's  Rights  terribly  sharp  blows,  but  I 
must  even  own  it,  that  one  might  as  well  try  to  live  without 
one's  bread-and-butter  as  without  the  aid  of  the  dominant 
sex.  When  I  see  women  split  wood,  unload  coal-carts,  move 
wash-tubs,  and  roll  barrels  of  flour  and  apples  handily  down 
cellar-ways  or  up  into  carts,  then  I  shall  believe  in  the 
sublime  theories  of  the  strong-minded  sisters  ;  but  as  long 
as  I  see  before  me  my  own  forlorn  little  hands,  and  sit 
down  on  the  top  stair  to  recover  breath,  and  try  in  vain  to 
lift  the  water-pitcher  at  table,  just  so  long  I  shall  be  glad 
and  thankful  that  there  are  men  in  the  world,  and  that 
half  a  dozen  of  them  are  my  kindest  and  best  friends.  It 
was  rather  an-  affliction  to  Miss  Lucinda  to  feel  this  innate 
dependence,  and  at  first  she  resolved  to  employ  only  small 
boys,  and  never  any  one  of  them  more  than  a  week  or  two. 
She  had  an  unshaped  theory  that  an  old  maid  was  a  match 
for  a  small  boy,  but  that  a  man  would  cheat  and  domineer 
over  her.  Experience  sadly  put  to  flight  these  notions  ; 
for  a  succession  of  boys  in  this  cabinet-ministry  for  the 
first  three  years  of  her  stay  in  Dalton  would  have  driven 
her  into  a  Presbyterian  convent,  had  there  been  one  at 
hand.  Boy  Number  One  caught  the  yellow  cur  out  of 
bounds  one  day,  and  shaved  his  plumy  tail  to  a  bare  stick, 
and  Miss  Lucinda  fairly  shed  tears  of  grief  and  rage  when 
Pink  appeared  at  the  door  with  the  denuded  appendage 
tucked  between  his  little  legs,  and  his  funny  yellow  eyes 


3io  Miss  Lucinda. 

casting  sidelong  looks  of  apprehension  at  his  mistress. 
Boy  Number  One  was  despatched  directly.  Number  Two 
did  pretty  well  for  a  month,  but  his  integrity  and  his  appe- 
tite conflicted,  and  Miss  Lucinda  found  him  one  moonlight 
night  perched  in  her  plum-tree  devouring  the  half-ripe  fruit. 
She  shook  him  down  with  as  little  ceremony  as  if  he  had 
been  an  apple ;  and  though  he  lay  at  Death's  door  for  a 
week  with  resulting  cholera-morbus,  she  relented  not.  So 
the  experiment  went  on,  till  a  list  of  casualties  that  num- 
bered in  it  fatal  accidents  to  three  kittens,  two  hens  and  a 
rooster,  and  at  last  Pink  himself,  who  was  sent  into  a 
decline  by  repeated  drenchings  from  the  watering-pot,  put 
an  end  to  her  forbearance,  and  she  instituted  in  her  vizier- 
ship  the  old  man  who  had  now  kept  his  office  so  long,  — 
a  queer,  withered,  slow,  humorous  old  creature,  who  did 
"  chores  "  for  some  six  or  seven  other  households,  and  got 
a  living-  by  sundry  "jobs"  of  wood-sawing,  hoeing  corn, 
and  other  like  works  of  labor,  if  not  of  skill.  Israel  was 
a  great  comfort  to  Miss  Lucinda :  he  was  efficient  counsel 
in  the  maladies  of  all  her  pets,  had  a  sovereign  cure  for 
the  gapes  in  chickens,  and  could  stop  a  cat's  fit  with  the 
greatest  ease;  he  kept  the  tiny  garden  in  perfect  order, 
and  was  very  honest,  and  Miss  Manners  favored  him  ac- 
cordingly. She  compounded  liniment  for  his  rheumatism, 
herb-sirup  for  his  colds,  presented  him  with  a  set  of  flannel 
shirts,  and  knit  him  a  comforter ;  so  that  Israel  expressed 
himself  strongly  in  favor  of  "  Miss  Lucindy,"  and  she  said 
to  herself  he  really  was  "  quite  good  for  a  man." 

But  just  now,  in  her  forty-seventh  year,  Miss  Lucinda  had 
come  to  grief,  and  all  on  account  of  Israel  and  his  attempts 
to  please  her.  About  six  months  before  this  census-taking 
era,  the  old  man  had  stepped  into  Miss  Manners's  kitchen 
with  an  unusual  radiance  on  his  wrinkles  and  in  his  eyes, 
and  began  without  his  usual  morning  greeting,— 

"  I  've  got  so'thin'  for  you  naow,  Miss  Lucindy.  You  're 
a  master-hand  for  pets,  but  I  '11  bet  a  red  cent  you  ha'n't  an 
idee  what  I  Ve  got  for  ye  naow !  " 


Miss  Lucinda.  311 

"  I  'm  sure  I  can't  tell,  Israel,"  said  she ;  "you  '11  have  to 
let  me  see  it." 

"  Well,"  said  he,  lifting  up  his  coat  and  looking  carefully 
behind  him  as  he  sat  down  on  the  settle,  lest  a  stray  kitten 
or  chicken  should  preoccupy  the  bench,  "  you  see  I  was 
down  to  Orrin's  abaout  a  week  back,  and  he  hed  a  litter  o' 
pigs,  —  eleven  on  'em.  Well,  he  could  n't  raise  the  hull  on 
'em,  —  't  a'n't  good  to  raise  more  'n  nine,  —  an'  so  he  said, 
ef  I  'd  'a'  had  a  place  o'  my  own,  I  could  'a'  had  one  on  'em, 
but,  as  't  was,  he  guessed  he  'd  hev  to  send  one  to  market 
for  a  roaster.  I  went  daown  to  the  barn  to  see  'em,  an' 
there  was  one,  the  cutest  little  critter  I  ever  sot  eyes  on, 
and  I  Ve  seen  more  'n  four  pigs  in  my  day,  —  't  was  a  little 
black-spotted  one,  as  spry  as  an  ant,  and  the  dreffullest 
knowin'  look  out  of  its  eyes  !  I  fellowshipped  it  right  off, 
and  I  said,  says  I,  'Orrin,  ef  you'll  let  me  hev  that  'ere 
little  spotted  feller,  I  '11  git  a  place  for  him,  for  I  do  take 
to  him  consarnedly.'  -So  he  said  I  could,  and  I  fetched 
him  hum,  and  Miss  Slater  and  me  we  kinder  fed  him  up 
for  a  few  days  back,  till  he  got  sorter  wonted,  and  I  'm 
a-goin'  to  fetch  him  to  you." 

"  But,  Israel,  I  have  n't  any  place  to  put  him  in." 

"  Well,  that  a'n't  nothin'  to  hender.  I  '11  jest  fetch  out 
them  old  boards  out  of  the  wood-shed,  and  knock  up  a  little 
sty  right  off,  daown  by  the  end  o'  the  shed,  and  you  ken 
keep  your  swill  that  I  've  hed  before,  and  it  '11  come  handy." 

"  But  pigs  are  so  dirty  !  " 

"  I  don't  know  as  they  be  ;  they  ha'n't  no  great  conven- 
iences for  washin'  ginerally ;  but  I  never  heerd  as  they  was 
dirtier  'n  other  critters,  where  they  run  wild.  An'  beside, 
that  a'n't  goin'  to  hender,  nuther;  I  calculate  to  make  it 
one  o'  the  chores  to  take  keer  of  him  ;  't  won't  cost  no  more 
to  you  ;  and  I  ha'n't  no  great  opportunities  to  do  things  for 
folks  that 's  allers  a-doin'  for  me ;  so 't  you  need  n't  be 
afeard,  Miss  Lucindy  :  I  love  to." 

Miss  Lucinda's  heart  got  the  better  of  her  judgment.  A 
nature  that  could  feel  so  tenderly  for  its  inferiors  in  the 


312  Miss  Lncinda. 

scale  could  not  be  deaf  to  the  tiny  voices  of  humanity, 
when  they  reached  her  solitude  ;  and  she  thanked  Israel 
for  the  pig  so  heartily  that  the  old  man's  face  brightened 
still  more,  and  his  voice  softened  from  its  cracked  harsh- 
ness, as  he  said,  clicking  up  and  down  the  latch  of  the 
back-door,  — 

"  Well,  I  'm  sure  you  're  as  welcome  as  you  are  obleeged, 
and  I  '11  knock  up  that  'ere  pen  right  off;  he  sha'n't  pester 
ye  any,  —  that's  a  fact." 

Strange  to  say,  —  yet  perhaps  it  might  have  been  expected 
from  her  proclivities,  —  Miss  Lucinda  to(3k  an  astonishing 
fancy  to  the  pig.  Very  few  people  know  how  intelligent  an 
animal  a  pig  is ;  but  when  one  is  regarded  merely  as  pork 
and  hams,  one's  intellect  is  apt  to  fall  into  neglect :  a  moral 
sentiment  which  applies  out  of  Pigdom.  This  'creature 
would  not  have  passed  muster  at  a  county  fair ;  no  Suffolk 
blood  compacted  and  rounded  him.;  he  belonged  to  the 
"  racers,"  and  skipped  about  his  pen  with  the  alacrity  of  a 
large  flea,  wiggling  his  curly  tail  as  expressively  as  a  dog's, 
and  "all  but  speakin',"  as  Israel  said.  He  was  always  glad 
to  see  Miss  Lucinda,  and  established  a  firm  friendship  with 
her  dog  Fun,  a  pretty,  sentimental,  German  spaniel.  Be- 
sides, he  kept  tolerably  clean  by  dint  of  Israel's  care,  and 
thrust  his  long  nose  between  the  rails  of  his  pen  for  grass, 
or  fruit,  or  carrot-  and  beet-tops,  with  a  knowing  look  out 
of  his  deep-set  eyes  that  was  never  to  be  resisted  by  the 
soft-hearted  spinster.  Indeed,  Miss  Lucinda  enjoyed  the 
possession  of  one  pet  who  could  not  tyrannize  over  her. 
Pink's  place  was  more  than  filled  by  Fun,  who  was  so 
oppressively  affectionate  that  he  never  could  leave  his  mis- 
tress alone.  If  she  lay  down  on  her  bed,  he  leaped  up  and 
unlatched  the  door,  and  stretched  himself  on  the  white 
counterpane  beside  her  with  a  grunt  of  satisfaction  ;  if  she 
sat  down  to  knit  or  sew,  he  laid  his  head  and  shoulders 
across  her  lap,  or  curled  himself  up  on  her  knees ;  if  she 
was  cooking,  he  whined  and  coaxed  round  her  till  she 
hardly  knew  whether  she  fried  or  broiled  her  steak;  and 


Miss  Lucinda.  313 

if  she  turned  him  out  .and  buttoned  the  door,  his  cries  were 
so  pitiful  she  could  never  -be  resolute  enough  to  keep  him 
in  exile  five  minutes,  —  for  it  was  a  prominent  article  in  her 
creed,  that  animals  have  feelings  that  are  easily  wounded, 
and  are  of  "like  passions"  with  men,  only  incapable  of 
expression.  Indeed,  Miss  Lucinda  considered  it  the  duty 
of  human  beings  to  atone  to  animals  for  the  Lord's  injustice 
in  making  them  dumb  and  four-legged.  She  would  have 
been  rather  startled  at  such  an  enunciation  of  her  practice, 
but  she  was  devoted  to  it  as  a  practice :  she  would  give 
her  own  chair  to«the  cat  and  sit  on  the  settle  herself;  get 
up  at  midnight,  if  a  mew  or  a  bark  called  her,  though  the 
thermometer  was  below  zero ;  the  tenderloin  of  her  steak 
or  the  liver  of  her  chicken  was  saved  for  a  pining  kitten  or 
an  ancient  and  toothless  cat ;  and  no  disease  or  wound 
daunted  her  faithful  nursing,  or  disgusted  her  devoted  ten- 
derness. It  was  rather,  hard  on  humanity,  and  rather  re- 
versive  of  Providence,  that  all  this  care  and  pains  should 
be  lavished  on  cats  and  dogs,  while  little  morsels  of  flesh 
and  blood,  ragged,  hungry,  and  immortal,  wandered  up  and 
down  the  streets.  Perhaps  that  they  were  immortal  was 
their  defence  from  Miss  Lucinda;  one  might  have  hoped 
that  her  "  other-worldliness  "  accepted  that  fact  as  enough 
to  outweigh  present  pangs,  if  she  had  not  openly  declared, 
to  Israel  Slater's  immense  amusement  and  astonishment, 
that  she  believed  creatures  had  souls,  —  little  ones  perhaps, 
but  souls  after  all,  and  she  did  expect  to  see  Pink  again 
some  time  or  other. 

"  Well,  I  hope  he  's  got  his  tail  feathered  out  ag'in,"  said 
Israel,  dryly.  "I  do'no'  but  what  hair'd  grow  as  well  as 
feathers  in  a  speretooal  state,*  and  I  never  see  a  pictur*  of 
an  angel  but  what  hed  consider'ble  many  feathers." 

Miss  Lucinda  looked  rather  confounded.  But  humanity 
had  one  little  revenge  on  her  in  the  shape  of  her  cat,  a 
beautiful  Maltese,  with  great  yellow  eyes,  fur  as  soft  as 
velvet,  and  silvery  paws  as  lovely  to  look  at  as  they  were 
thistly  to  touch.  Toby  certainly  pleaded  hard  for  Miss 


3H  Miss  Lucinda. 

Luanda's  theory  of  a  soul ;  but  his  was  no  good  one  :  some 
tricksy  and  malign  little  spirit  had  lent  him  his  share  of 
intellect,  and  he  used  it  to  the  entire  subjugation  of  Miss 
Lucinda.  When  he  was  hungry,  he  was  as  well-mannered 
and  as  amiable  as  a  good  child,  —  he  would  coax,  and  purr, 
and  lick  her  fingers  with  his  pretty  red  tongue,  like  a  "  per- 
fect love  " ;  but  when  he  had  his  fill,  and  needed  no  more, 
then  came  Miss  Lucinda's  time  of  torment.  If  she  at- 
tempted to  caress  him,  he  bit  and  scratched  like  a  young 
tiger,  he  sprang  at  her  from  the  floor  and  fastened  on  her 
arm  with  real  fury ;  if  he  cried  at  the  window  and  was  not 
directly  let  in,  as  soon  as  he  had  achieved  entrance  his  first 
manoeuvre  was  to  dash  at  her  ankles  and  bite  them,  if  he 
could,  as  punishment  for  her  tardiness.  This  skirmishing 
was  his  favorite  mode  of  attack ;  if  he  was  turned  out  of 
the  closet,  or  off  the  pillow  up  stairs,  he  retreated  under 
the  bed  and  made  frantic  sallies  at  her  feet,  till  the  poor 
woman  got  actually  nervous,  and  if  he  was  in  the  room 
made  a  flying  leap  as  far  as  she  could  to  her  bed,  to  escape 
those  keen  claws.  Indeed,  old  Israel  found  her  more  than 
once  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen-floor  with  Toby 
crouched  for  a  spring  under  the  table,  his  poor  mistress 
afraid  to  move,  for  fear  of  her  unlucky  ankles.  And  this 
literally  cat-ridden  woman  was  hazed  about  and  ruled  over 
by  her  feline  tyrant  to  that  extent  that  he  occupied  the 
easiest  chair,  the  softest  cushion,  the  middle  of  the  bed, 
and  the  front  of  the  fire,  not  only  undisturbed,  but  caressed. 
This  is  a  veritable  history,  beloved  reader,  and  I  offer  it  as 
a  warning  and  an  example :  if  you  will  be  an  old  maid, 
or  if  you  can't  help  it,  take  to  petting  children,  or  donkeys, 
or  even  a  respectable  cow,  but  beware  of  domestic  tyranny 
in  any  shape  but  man's  ! 

No  wonder  Miss  Lucinda  took  kindly  to  the  pig,  who 
had  a  house  of  his  own,  and  a  servant,  as  it  were,  to  the 
avoidance  of  all  trouble  on  her  part,  —  the  pig  who  capered 
for  joy  when  she  or  Fun  approached,  and  had  so  much 
expression  in  his  physiognomy  that  one  almost  expected 


Miss  Lucinda.  315 

to  see  him  smile.  Many  a  sympathizing  conference  Miss 
Lucinda  held  with  Israel  over  the  perfections  of  Piggy,  as 
he  leaned  against  the  sty  and  looked  over  at  his  favorite 
after  this  last  chore  was  accomplished. 

"  I  say  for 't,"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  one  day,  "  I  b'lieve 
that  cre'tur'  knows  enough  to  be  professor  in  a  college. 
Why,  he  talks  !  he  re'lly  doos :  a  leetle  through  his  nose, 
maybe,  but  no  more  'n  Dr.  Colton  allers  doos,  —  V  I  de- 
clare he  appears  to  have  abaout  as  much  sense.  I  never 
see  the  equal  of  him.  ,  I  thought  he  'd  'a'  larfed  right  out 
yesterday,  when  I  gin  him  that  mess  o'  corn :  he  got  up. 
onto  his  forelegs  on  the  trough,  an'  he  winked  them  knowin' 
eyes  o'  his'n,  an'  waggled  his  tail,  an'  then  he  set  off  an' 
capered  round  till  he  come  bunt  up  ag'inst  the  boards.  I 
tellyou,  —  that  sorter  sobered  him ;  he  gin  a  growlin'  grunt, 
an'  shook  his  ears,  an'  looked  sideways  at  me,  and  then  he 
put  to  and  eet  up  that  corn  as  sober  as  a  judge.  I  swan  ! 
he  does  beat  the  Dutch !  " 

But  there  was  one  calculation  forgotten  both  by  Miss 
Lucinda  and  Israel:  the  pig  would  grow,  —  and  in  conse- 
quence, as  I  said  before,  Miss  Lucinda  came  to  grief;  for 
when  the  census-taker  tinkled  her  sharp  little  door-bell,  it 
called  her  from  a  laborious  occupation  at  the  sty,  —  no 
more  and  no  less  than  trying  to  nail  up  a  board  that  Piggy 
had  torn  down  in  struggling  to  get  out  of  his  durance.  He 
had  grown  so  large  that  Miss  Lucinda  was  afraid  of  him ; 
his  long  legs  and  their  vivacious  motion  added  to  the 
shrewd  intelligence  of  his  eyes,  and  his  nose  seemed  as 
formidable  to  this  poor  little  woman  as  the  tusk  of  a  rhi- 
noceros :  but  what  should  she  do  with  him  ?  One  might 
as  well  have  proposed  to  her  to  kill  and  cut  up  Israel  as  to 
consign  Piggy  to  the  "  fate  of  race."  She  could  not  turn 
him  into  the  street  to  starve,  for  she  loved  him ;  and  the 
old  maid  suffered  from  a  constancy  that  might  have  made 
some  good  man  happy,  but  only  embarrassed  her  with  the 
pig.  She  could  not  keep  him  forever,  —  that  was  evident  j 
she  knew  enough  to  be  aware  that  time  would  increase  his 


316  Miss  Lucinda. 

disabilities  as  a  pet,  and  he  was  an  expensive  one  now,  — 
for  the  corn-swallowing  capacities  of  a  pig,  one  of  the 
"racer"  breed,  are  almost  incredible,  and  nothing  about 
Miss  Lucinda  wanted  for  food  even  to  fatness.  Besides,  he 
was  getting  too  big  for  his  pen,  and  so  "  cute  "  an  animal 
could  not  be  debarred  from  all  out-door  pleasures,  and 
tantalized  by  the  sight  of  a  green  and  growing  garden 
before  his  eyes  continually,  without  making  an  effort  to 
partake  of  its  delights.  So,  when  Miss  Lucinda  indued 
herself  with  her  brown  linen  sack  and  sun-bonnet  to  go 
and  weed  her  carrot-patch,  she  was  arrested  on  the  way  by 
a  loud  grunting  and  scrambling  in  Piggy's  quarter,  and 
found  to  her  distress  that  he  had  contrived  to  knock  off  the 
upper  board  from  his  pen.  She  had  no  hammer  at  hand ; 
so  she "  seized  a  large  stone  that  lay  near  by  and  pounded 
at  the  board  till  the  twice-tinkling  »bell  recalled  her  to  the 
house,  and  as  soon  as  she  had  made  confession  to  the 
census-taker  she  went  back,  —  alas,  too  late !  Piggy  had 
redoubled  his  efforts,  another  board  had  yielded,  and  he 
was  free  !  What  a  thing  freedom  is  !  how  objectionable  in 
practice,  how  splendid  in  theory  !  More  people  than  Miss 
Lucinda  have  been  put  to  their  wits'  end  when  "  Hoggie  " 
burst  his  bonds  and  became  rampant  instead  of  couchant. 
But  he  enjoyed  it ;  he  made  the  tour  of  the  garden  on  a 
delightful  canter,  brandishing  his  tail  with  an  air  of  de- 
fiance that  daunted  his  mistress  at  once,  and  regarding  her 
with  his  small  .bright  eyes  as  if  he  would  before  long  taste 
her  and  see  if  she  was  as  crisp  as  she  looked.  She  retreated 
forthwith  to  the  shed  and  caught  up  a  broom  with  which 
she  courageously  charged  upon  Piggy,  and  was  routed  en- 
tirely ;  for,  being  no  way  alarmed  by  her  demonstration, 
the  creature  capered  directly  at  her,  knocked  her  down, 
knocked  the  broom  out  of  her  hand,  and  capered  away 
again  to  the  young  carrot-patch. 

"  O  dear ! "  said  Miss  Manners,  gathering  herself  up 
from  the  ground,  —  "  if  there  only  was  a  man  here  ! " 

Suddenly  she  betook  herself  to  her  heels,  —  for  the  ani- 


Miss  Lucinda.  317 

mal  looked  at  her,  and  stopped  eating :  that  was  enough 
to  drive  Miss  Lucinda  off  the  field.  And  now,  quite  des- 
perate, she  rushed  through  the  house  and  out  of  the  front- 
door, actually  in  search  of  a  man  !  Just  down  the  street 
she  saw  one.  Had  she  been  composed,  she  might  have 
noticed  the  threadbare  cleanliness  of  his  dress,  the  odd 
cap  that  crowned  his  iron-gray  locks,  and  the  peculiar 
manner  of  his  walk ;  for  our  little  old  maid  had  stumbled 
upon  no  less  a  person  than  Monsieur  Jean  Leclerc,  the 
dancing-master  of  Dalton.  Not  that  this  accomplishment 
was  much  in  vogue  in  the  embryo  city ;  but  still  there  were 
a  few  who  liked  to  fit  themselves  for  firemen's  balls  and 
sleighing-party  frolics,  and  quite  a  large  class  of  children 
were  learning  betimes  such  graces  as  children  in  New 
England,  receive  more  easily  than  their  elders.  Monsieur 
Leclerc  had  just  enough  scholars  to  keep  his  coat  thread- 
bare and  restrict  him  to  necessities  ;  but  he  lived,  and  was 
independent.  All  this  Miss  Lucinda  was  ignorant  of ;  she 
only  saw  a  man,  and,  with  the  instinct  of  the  sex  in  trouble 
or  danger,  she  appealed  to  him  at  once. 

"  O,  sir  !  won't  you  step  in  and  help  me  ?  My  pig  has 
got  out,  and  I  can't  catch  him,  and  he  is  ruining  my  gar- 
den ! " 

"  Madame,  I  shall !  "  replied  the  Frenchman,  bowing  low, 
and  assuming  the  first  position. 

So  Monsieur  Leclerc  followed  Miss  Manners,  and  sup- 
plied himself  with  a  mop  that  was  hanging  in  the  shed  as 
his  best  weapon.  Dire  was  the  battle  between  the  pig  and 
the  Frenchman.  They  skipped  past  each  other  and  back 
again  as  if  they  were  practising  for  a  cotillon.  Piggy  had 
four  legs,  which  gave  him  a  certain  advantage ;  but  the 
Frenchman  had  most  brain,  and  in  the  long  run  brain  gets 
the  better  of  legs.  A  weary  dance  they  led  each  other,  but 
after  a  while  the  pet  was  hemmed  in  a  corner,  and  Miss 
Lucinda  had  run  for  a  rope  to  tie  him,  when,  just  as  she 
returned,  the  beast  made  a  desperate  charge,  upset  his 
opponent,  and,  giving  a  leap  in  the  wrong  direction,  to  his 


318  Miss  Lucinda. 

manifest  astonishment.,  landed  in  his  own  sty !  Miss  Lu- 
cinda's  courage  rose ;  she  forgot  her  prostrate  friend  in 
need,  and,  running  to  the  pen,  caught  up  hammer  and  nail- 
box  on  her  way,  and,  with  unusual  energy,  nailed  up  the 
bars  stronger  than  ever,  and  then  bethought  herself  to 
thank  the  stranger.  But  there  he  lay  quite  still  and  pale. 

"  Dear  me  ! "  said  Miss  Manners,  "  I  hope  you  have  n't 
hurt  yourself,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  have  fear  that  I  am  hurt,  Madame,"  said  he,  trying  to 
smile.  "  I  cannot  to  move  but  it  pains  me." 

"Where  is  it?  Is  it  your  leg  or  your  arm?  Try  and 
move  one  at  a  time,"  said  Miss  Lucinda,  promptly. 

The  left  leg  was  helpless,  it  could  not  answer  to  the  effort, 
and  the  stranger  lay  back  on  the  ground  pale  with  the  pain. 
Miss  Lucinda  took  her  lavender-bottle  out  of  her  pocket 
and  softly  bathed  his  head  and  face ;  then  she  took  off  her 
sack  and  folded  it  up  under  his  head,  and  put  the  lavender 
beside  him.  She  was  good  at  an  emergency,  and  she 
showed  it. 

"  You  must  lie  quite  still,"  said  she  ;  "  you  must  not  try 
to  move  till  I  come  back  with  help,  or  your  leg  will  be  hurt 
more." 

With  that  she  went  away,  and  presently  returned  with 
two  strong  men  and  the  long  shutter  of  a  shop-window. 
To  this  extempore  litter  she  carefully  moved  the  French- 
man, and  then  her  neighbors  lifted  him  and  carried  him  into 
the  parlor,  where  Miss  Lucinda?s  chintz  lounge  was  already 
spread  with  a  tight-pinned  sheet  to  receive  the  poor  man, 
and  while  her  helpers  put  him  to  bed  she  put  on  her  bonnet 
and  ran  for  the  doctor. 

Doctor  Colton  did  his  best  for  his  patient,  but  pronounced 
it  an  impossibility  to  remove  him  till  the  bone  should  be 
joined  firmly,  as  a  thorough  cure  was  all-essential  to  his 
professional  prospects.  And  now,  indeed,  Miss  Lucinda 
had  her  hands  full.  A  nurse  could  not  be  afforded,  but 
Monsieur  Leclerc  was  added  to  the  list  of  old  Israel's 
"  chores,"  and  what  other  nursing  he  needed  Miss  Lucinda 


Miss  Lucinda.  319 

was  glad  to  do  ;  for  her  kind  heart  was  full  of  self-re- 
proaches to  think  it  was  her  pig  that  had  knocked  down 
the  poor  man,  and  her  mop-handle  that  had  twisted  itself 
across  and  under  his  leg,  and  aided,  if  not  caused,  its 
breakage.  So  Israel  came  in  Jour  or  five  times  a  day  to  do 
what  he  could,  and  Miss  Lucinda  played  nurse  at  other 
times  to  the  best  of  her  ability.  Such  flavorous  gruels  and 
porridges  as  she  concocted  !  such  tisanes  after  her  guest's 
instructions  !  such  dainty  soups,  and  sweetbreads,  and  cut- 
lets, served  with  such  neatness  !  After  his  experience  of 
a  second-rate  boarding-house,  Monsieur  Leclerc  thought 
himself  in  a  gastronomic  paradise.  Moreover,  these  tiny 
meals  were  garnished  with  flowers,  which  his  French  taste 
for  color  and  decoration  appreciated :  two  or  three  stems 
of  lilies-of-the-valley  in  their  folded  green  leaves,  cool  and 
fragrant ;  a  moss-rosebud  and  a  spire  of  purple-gray  laven- 
der bound  together  with  ribbon-grass  ;  or  three  carnations 
set  in  glittering  myrtle-sprays,  the  last  acquisition  of  the 
garden. 

Miss  Lucinda  enjoyed  nursing  thoroughly,  and  a  kindlier 
patient  no  woman  ever  had.  Her  bright  needle  flew  faster 
than  ever  through  the  cold  linen  and  flaccid  cambric  of  the 
shirts  and  cravats  she  fashioned,  while  he  told  her,  in  his 
odd  idioms,  stories  of  his  life  in  France,  and  the  curious 
customs  both  of  society  and  cuisinerie,  with  which  last  he 
showed  a  surprising  acquaintance.  Truth  to  tell,  when 
Monsieur  Leclerc  said  he  had  been  a  member  of  the  Due 
de  Montmorenci's  household,  he  withheld  the  other  half 
of  this  truth,  —  that  he  had  been  his  valet-de-chambre :  but 
it  was  an  hereditary  service,  and  seemed  to  him  as  different 
a  thing  from  common  servitude  as  a  peer's  office  in  the 
bedchamber  differs  from  a  lackey's.  Indeed,  Monsieur 
Leclerc  was  a  gentleman  in  his  own  way,  —  not  of  blood, 
but  of  breeding;  and  while  he  had  faithfully  served  the 
"  aristocrats,"  as  his  father  had  done  before  him,  he  did 
not  limit  that  service  to  their  prosperity,  but  in  their  great- 
est need  descended  to  menial  offices,  and  forgot  that  he 


320  Miss  Lucinda. 

could  dance  and  ride  and  fence  almost  as  well  as  his  young 
master.  But  a  bullet  from  a  barricade  put  an  end  to  his 
duty  there,  and  he  hated  utterly  the  democratic  rule  that 
had  overturned  for  him  both  past  and  future,  so  he  escaped, 
and  came  to  America,  the  gjrand  resort  of  refugees,  where 
he  had  labored,  as  he  best  knew  how,  for  his  own  support, 
and  kept  to  himself  his  disgust  at  the  manners  and  customs 
of  the  barbarians.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  was  at 
home  and  happy.  Miss  Lucinda's  delicate  fashions  suited 
him  exactly ;  he  adored  her  taste  for  the  beautiful,  which 
she  was  unconscious  of;  he  enjoyed  her  cookery,  and 
though  he  groaned  within  himself  at  the  amount  of  debt 
he  was  incurring,  yet  he  took  courage  from  her  kindness 
to  believe  she  would  not  be  a  hard  creditor,  and,  being 
naturally  cheerful,  put  aside  his  anxieties  and  amused  him- 
self as  well  as  her  with  his  stories,  his  quavering  songs,  his 
recipes  for  pot-au-feu,  tisane,  and  p&th,  at  once  economi- 
cal and  savoiy.  Never  had  a  leg  of  lamb  or  a  piece  of 
roast  beef  gone  so  far  in  her  domestic  experience,  a:  chicken 
seemed  almost  to  outlive  its  usefulness  in  its  various  forms 
of  reappearance,  and  the  salads  he  devised  were  as  wonder- 
ful as  the  omelets  he  superintended,  or  the  gay  dances  he 
played  on  his  beloved  violin,  as  soon  as  he  could  sit  up 
enough  to  manage  it.  Moreover,  —  I  should  say  most- 
over^  if  the  word  were  admissible,  —  Monsieur  Leclerc 
lifted  a  great  weight  before  long  from  Miss  Lucinda's  mind. 
He  began  by  subduing  Fun  to  his  proper  place  by  a  mild 
determination  that  completely  won  the  dog's  heart.  "  Wo- 
men and  spaniels,"  the  world  knows,  "  like  kicking  " ;  and 
though  kicks  were  no  part  of  the  good  man's  Rareyfaction 
of  Fun,  he  certainly  used  a  certain  amount  of  coercion, 
and  the  dog's  lawful  owner  admired  the  skill  of  the  teacher 
and  enjoyed  the  better  manners  of  the  pupil  thoroughly ; 
she  could  do  twice  as  much  sewing  now,  and  never  were 
her  nights  disturbed  by  a  bark,  for  the  dog  crouched  by 
his  new  friend's  bed  in  the  parlor  and  lay  quiet  there. 
Toby  was  next  undertaken,  and  proved  less  amenable  to 


Miss  Lucinda.  321 

discipline ;  he  stood  in  some  slight  awe  of  the  man  who 
tried  to  teach  him,  but  still  continued  to  sally  out  at  Miss 
Lucinda's  feet,  to  spring  at  her  caressing  hand  when  he  felt 
ill-humored,  and  to  claw  Fun's  patient  nose  and  his  ap- 
proaching paws  when  his  misplaced  sentimentality  led  him 
to  caress  the  cat ;  but  after  a  while  a  few  well-timed  slaps 
administered  with  vigor  cured  Toby  of  his  worst  tricks, 
though  every  blow  made  Miss  Lucinda  wince,  and  almost 
shook  her  good  opinion  of  Monsieur  Leclerc :  for  in  these 
long  weeks  he  had  wrought  out  a  good  opinion  of  himself 
in  her  mind,  much  to  her  own  surprise  ;  she  could  not  have 
believed  a  man  could  be  so  polite,  so  gentle,  so  patient,  and 
above  all  so  capable  of  ruling  without  tyranny.  Miss  LjU- 
cinda  was  puzzled. 

One  day,  as  Monsieur  Leclerc  was  getting  better,  just 
able  to  go  about  on  crutches,  Israel  came  into  the  kitchen, 
and  Miss  Manners  went  out  to  see  him.  She  left  the  door 
open,  and  along  with  the  odor  of  a  pot  of  raspberry-jam 
scalding  over  the  fire,  sending  its  steams  of  leaf-and-insect 
fragrance  through  the  little  house,  there  came  in  also  the 
following  conversation. 

"  Israel,"  said  Miss  Lucinda,  in  a  hesitating  and  rather 
forlorn  tone,  "  I  have  been  thinking,  —  I  don't  know  what 
to  do  with  Piggy.  He  is  quite  too  big  for  me  to  keep. 
I  'm  afraid  of  him,  if  he  gets  out ;  and  he  eats  up  the 
garden." 

"  Well,  that  is  a  consider'ble  swaller  for  a  pig,  Miss  Lu- 
cindy ;  but  I  b'lieve  you  ?re  abaout  right  abaout  keepin'  on 
him.  He  is  too  big,  —  that's  a  fact;  but  he's  so  like  a 
human  cre'tur',  I  'd  jest  abaout  as  lieves  slarter  Orrin.  I 
declare,  I  don't  know  no  more'n  a  taown-haouse  goose 
what  to  do  with-  him  ! " 

"  If  I  gave  him  away,  I  suppose  he  would  be  fatted  and 
killed,  of  course  ?  " 

"  I  guess  he  'd  be  killed,  likely ;  but  as  for  fattenin'  on 
him,  I  'd  jest  as  soon  undertake  to  fatten  a  salt  codfish. 
He 's  one  o'  the  racers,  an'  they  're  as  holler  as  hogsheads : 
14*  u 


322  Miss  Lucinda. 

you  can  fill  'em  up  to  their  noses,  ef  you  're  a  mind  to 
spend  your  corn,  and  they  '11  caper  it  all  off  their  bones  in 
twenty-four  haours.  I  b'lieve,  ef  they  was  tied  neck  an' 
heels  an'  stuffed,  they'd  wiggle  thin  betwixt  feedin'-times. 
Why,  Orrin,  he  raised  nine  on  'em,  and  every  darned 
critter 's  as  poor  as  Job's  turkey,  to-day  :  they  a'n't  no  good. 
I  'd  as  lieves  ha'  had  nine  chestnut  rails,  —  an'  a  little 
lieveser,  'cause  they  don't  eat  nothin'." 

"  You  don't  know  of  any  poor  person  who  'd  like  to  have 
a  pig,  do  you  ?  "  said  Miss  Lucinda,  wistfully. 

"  Well,  the  poorer  they  was,  the  quicker  they  'd  eat  him 
up,  I  guess,  —  ef  they  could  eat  such  a  razor-back." 

."  O,  I  don't  like  to  think  of  his  being  eaten !  I  wish  he 
could  be  got  rid  of  some  other  way.  Don't  you  think  he 
might  be  killed  in  his  sleep,  Israel?" 

This  was  a  little  too  much  for  Israel.  An  irresistible 
flicker  of  laughter  twitched  his  wrinkles  and  bubbled  in 
his  throat. 

"  I  think  it 's  likely  't  would  wake  him  up,"  said  he,  de- 
murely. "  Killin'  's  killin',  and  a  cre'tur5  can't  sleep  over 
it 's  though  't  was  the  stomach-ache.  I  guess  he  'd  kick 
some,  ef  he  was  asleep,  —  and  screech  some,  too  !  " 

"  Dear  me ! "  said  Miss  Lucinda,  horrified  at  the  idea. 
'*  I  wish  he  could  be  sent  out  to  run  in  the  woods.  Are 
there  any  good  woods  near  here,  Israel  ? " 

"I  don't  know  but  what  he'd  as  lieves  be  slartered  to 
once  as  to  starve,  an'  be  hunted  down  out  in  the  lots. 
Besides,  there  a'n't  nobody  as  I  knows  of  would  like  a  hog 
to  be  a-rootin'  round  amongst  their  turnips  and  young 
wheat." 

"  Well,  what  I  shall  do  with  him  I  don't  know  !  "  despair- 
ingly exclaimed  Miss  Lucinda.  "  He  was  such  a  dear  little 
thing  when  you  brought  him,  Israel !  Do  you  remember 
how  pink  his  pretty  little  nose  was, — just  like  a  rose-bud, — 
and  how  bright  his  eyes  looked,  and  his  cunning  legs? 
And  now  he  's  grown  so  big  and  fierce  !  But  I  can't  help 
liking  him,  either." 


Miss  Lucinda.  323 

"  He 's  a  cute  critter,  that 's  sartain ;  but  he  does  too 
much  rootin'  to  have  a  pink  nose  now,  I  expect ;  —  there 's 
consider'ble  on  't,  so  I  guess  it  looks  as  well  to  have  it  gray. 
But  I  don't  know  no  more  'n  you  do  what  to  do  abaout  it." 

"  If  I  could  only  get  rid  of  him  without  knowing  what 
became  of  him ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Lucinda,  squeezing  her 
fore-finger  with  great  earnestness,  and  looking  both  puzzled 
and  pained. 

"If  Mees  Lucinda  would  pairmit?"  said  a  voice  behind 
her. 

She  turned  round  to  see  Monsieur  Leclerc  on  his  crutches, 
just  in  the  parlor-door. 

"  I  shall,  Mees,  myself  dispose  of  Piggee,  if  it  please.  I 
can.  I  shall  have  no  sound  ;  he  shall  to  go  away  like  a. 
silent  snow,  to  trouble  you  no  more,  never !  " 

"  O,  sir  !  if  you  could  !     But  I  don't  see  how  !  " 

"If  Mees  was  to  see,  it  would  not  be  to  save  her  pain. 
I  shall  have  him  to  go  by  magique  to  fiery  land." 

Fairy-land,  probably !  But  Miss  Lucinda  did  not  per- 
ceive the  Equivoque. 

"  Nor  yet  shall  I  trouble  Meester  Israyel.  I  shall  have 
the  aid  of  myself  and  one  good  friend  that  I  have ;  and 
some  night  when  you  rise  of  the  morning,  he  shall  not  be 
there." 

Miss  Lucinda  breathed  a  deep  sigh  of  relief. 

"  I  am  greatly  obliged,  —  I  shall  be,  I  mean,"  said  she. 

"  Well,  I  'm  glad  enough  to  wash  my  hands  on  't,"  said 
Israel.  "I  shall  hanker  arter  the  critter  some,  but  he's 
a-gettin'  too  big  to  be  handy ;  'n'  it 's  one  comfort  abaout 
critters,  you  ken  get  rid  on'  em  somehaow  when  they  're 
more  plague  than  profit.  But  folks  has  got  to  be  let  alone, 
excep'  the  Lord  takes  'em ;  an'  He  don't  allers.see  fit." 

What  added  point  and  weight  to  these  final  remarks  of 
old  Israel  was  the  well-known  fact  that  he  suffered  at  home 
from  the  most  pecking  and  worrying  of  wives,  and  had 
been  heard  to  say  in  some  moment  of  unusual  frankness 
that  he  "didn't  see  how  't  could  be  sinful  to  wish  Miss; 


324  Miss  Lucinda. 

Slater  was  in  heaven,  for  she  'd  be  lots  better  off,  and  other 
folks  too  ! " 

Miss  Lucinda  never  knew  what  befell  her  pig  one  fine 
September  night ;  she  did  not  even  guess  that  a  visit  paid 
to  Monsieur  by  one  of  his  pupils,  a  farmer's  daughter  just 
out  of  Dalton,  had  anything  to  do  with  this  enlevement; 
she  was  sound  asleep  in  her  bed  up  stairs,  when  her  guest 
shod  his  crutches  with  old  gloves,  and  limped  out  to  the 
garden-gate  by  dawn,  where  he  and  the  farmer  tolled  the 
animal  out  of  his  sty  and  far  down  the  street  by  tempting 
red  apples,  and  then  Farmer  Steele  took  possession  of  him, 
and  he  was  seen  no  more.  No,  the  first  thing  Miss  Lu- 
cinda knew  of  her  riddance  was  when  Israel  put  his  head 
into  the  back-door  that  same  morning,  some  four  hours 
afterward,  and  said,  with  a  significant  nod,  — 

"He's  gone!" 

After  all  his  other  chores  were  done,  Israel  had  a  con- 
ference with  Monsieur  Leclerc,  and  the  two  sallied  into  the 
garden,  and  in  an  hour  had  dismantled  the  low  dwelling, 
cleared  away  the  wreck,  levelled  and  smoothed  its  site, 
and  Monsieur,  having  previously  provided  himself  with  an 
Isabella-grape-vine,  planted  it  on  this  forsaken  spot,  and 
trained  it  carefully  against  the  end  of  the  shed  :  strange 
to  say,  though  it  was  against  all  precedent  to  transplant  a 
grape  in  September,  it  lived  and  flourished.  Miss  Lu- 
cinda's  gratitude  to  Monsieur  Leclerc  was  altogether  dis- 
proportioned,  as  he  thought,  to  his  slight  service.  He  could 
not  understand  fully  her  devotion  to  her  pets,  but  he  re- 
spected it,  and  aided  it  whenever  he  could,  though  he  never 
surmised  the  motive  that  adorned  Miss  Lucinda's  table 
with  such  delicate  superabundance  after  the  late  departure, 
and  laid  bundles  of  lavender-flowers  in  his  tiny  portmanteau 
till  the  very  leather  seemed  to  gather  fragrance. 

Before  long,  Monsieur  Leclerc  was  well  enough  to  resume 
his  classes,  and  return  to  his  boarding-house ;  but  the 
latter  was  filled,  and  only  offered  a  prospect  of  vacancy 
in  some  three  weeks  after  his  application ;  so  he  returned 


Miss  Lucinda.  325 

home  somewhat  dejected,  and  as  he  sat  by  the  little  parlor- 
fire  after  tea,  he  said  to  his  hostess,  in  a  reluctant  tone,  — 

"  Mees  Lucinda,  you  have  been  of  the  kindest  to  the 
poor  alien.  I  have  it  in  my  mind  to  relieve  you  of  this 
care  very  rapidly,  but  it  is  not  in  the  Fates  that  I  do.  I 
have  gone  to  my  house  of  lodgings,  and  they  cannot  to  give 
me  a  chamber  as  yet.  I  have  fear  that  I  must  yet  rely  me 
on  your  goodness  for  some  time  more,  if  you  can  to  enter- 
tain me  so  much  more  of  time  ? " 

"Why,  I  shall  like  to,  sir,"  replied  the  kindly,  simple- 
hearted  old  maid.  "  I  'm  sure  you  are  not  a  mite  of  trouble, 
and  I  never  can  forget  what  you  did  for  my  pig." 

A  smile  flitted  across  the  Frenchman's  thin,  dark  face, 
and  he  watched  her  glittering  needles  a  few  minutes  in 
silence  before  he  spoke  again. 

"  But  I  have  other  things  to  say  of  the  most  unpleasant 
to  me,  Mees  Lucinda.  I  have  a  great  debt  for  the  goodness 
and  care  you  to  me  have  lavished.  To  the  angels  of  the 
good  God  we  must  submit  to  be  debtors,  but  there  are  also 
of  mortal  obligations.  I  have  lodged  in  your  mansion  for 
more  'of  ten  weeks,  and  to  you  I  pay  yet  no  silver,  but  it  is 
that  I  have  it  not  at  present.  I  must  ask  of  your  goodness 
to  wait." 

The  old  maid's*  shining  black  eyes  grew  soft  as  she  looked 
at  him. 

"  Why  ! "  said  she,  "  I  don't  think  you  owe  me  much  of 
anything,  Mr.  Leclerc.  I  never  knew  things  last  as  they 
have  since  you  came.  I  really  think  you  brought  a  blessing. 
I  wish  you  would  please  to  think  you  don't  owe  me  any- 
thing." 

The  Frenchman's  great  brown  eyes  shone  with  suspicious 
dew. 

"  I  cannot  to  forget  that  I  owe  to  you  far  more  than  any 
silver  of  man  repays  ;  but  I  should  not  think  to  forget  that 
I  also  owe  to  you  silver,  or  I  should  not  be  worthy  of  a 
man's  name.  No,  Mees  !  I  have  two  hands  and  legs.  I 
will  not  let  a  woman  most  solitary  spend  for  me  her  good 
self." 


326  Miss  Lucinda. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Lucinda,"  if  you  will  be  uneasy  till 
you  pay  me,  I  would  rather  have  another  kind  of  pay  than 
money.  I  should  like  to  know  how  to  dance.  I  never  did 
learn,  when  I  was  a  girl,  and  I  think  it  would  be  good 
exercise." 

Miss  Lucinda  supported  this  pious  fiction  through  with 
a  simplicity  that  quite  deceived  the  Frenchman.  He  did 
not  think  it  so  incongruous  as  it  was.  He  had  seen  women 
of  sixty,  rouged,  and  jewelled,  and  furbelowed,  foot  it  deftly 
in  the  halls  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain  in  his  earliest 
youth ;  and  this  cheery,  healthy  woman,  with  lingering 
blooms  on  either  cheek,  and  uncapped  head  of  curly  black 
hair  but  slightly  strewn  with  silver,  seemed  quite  as  fit  a 
subject  for  the  accomplishment.  Besides,  he  was  poor,  — 
and  this  offered  so  easy  a  way  of  paying  the  debt  he  had  so 
dreaded  !  Well  said  Solomon,  —  "  The  destruction  of  the 
poor  is  their  poverty !  "  For  whose  moral  sense,  delicate 
sensitiveness,  generous  longings,  will  not  sometimes  give 
way  to  the  stringent  need  of  food  and  clothing,  the  gall  of 
indebtedness,  and  the  sinking  consciousness  of  an  empty 
purse  and  threatening  possibilities  ? 

Monsieur  Leclerc's  face  brightened. 

"Ah  !  with  what  grand  pleasure  shall  I  teach  you  the 
dance ! " 

But  it  fell  dark  again  as  he  proceeded,  — 

"  Though  not  one,  nor  two,  nor  three,  nor  four  quarters 
shall  be  of  value  sufficienVto  achieve  my  payment." 

"Then,  if  that  troubles  you,  why,  I  should  like  to  take 
some  French  lessons  in  the  evening,  when  you  don't  have 
classes.  I  learned  French  when  I  was  quite  a  girl,  but  not 
to  speak  it  very  easily ;  and  if  I  could  get  some  practice 
and  the  right  way  to  speak,  I  should  be  glad." 

"And  I  shall  give  you  the  real  Parisien  tone,  Mees 
Lucinda !  "  said  he  proudly.  "  I  shall  be  as  if  it  were  no 
more  an  exile  when  I  repeat  my  tongue  to  you  !  " 

And  so  it  was  settled.  Why  Miss  Lucinda  should  learn 
French  any  more  than  dancing  was  not  a  question  in  Mon- 


Miss  Liidnda.  327 

sieur  Leclerc's  mind.  It  is  true,  that  Chaldaic  would,  in  all 
probability,  be  as  useful  to  our  friend  as  French ;  and  the 
flying  over  poles  and  hanging  by  toes  and  fingers,  so  elo- 
quently described  by  the  Apostle  of  the  Body  in  these 
"Atlantic"  pages,  would  have  been  as  well  adapted  to 
her  style  and  capacity  as  dancing  ;  —  but  his  own  language, 
and  his  own  profession  !  what  man  would  not  have  re- 
garded these  as  indispensable  to  improvement,  particularly 
when  they  paid  his  board? 

During  the  latter  three  weeks  of  Monsieur  Leclerc's  stay 
with  Miss  Lucinda  he  made  himself  surprisingly  'useful. 
He  listed  the  doors  against  approaching  winter  breezes,  — 
he  weeded  in  the  garden,  —  trimmed,  tied,  trained,  wherever 
either  good  office  was  needed,  —  mended  china  with  an 
infallible  cement,  and  rickety  chairs  with  the  skill  of  a 
cabinet-maker ;  and  whatever  hard  or  dirty  work  he  did, 
he  always  presented  himself  at  table  in  a  state  of  scrupu- 
lous neatness  :  his  long  brown  hands  showed  no  trace  of 
labor ;  his  iron-gray  hair  was  reduced  to  smoothest  order ; 
his  coat  speckless,  if  threadbare  ;  and  he  ate  like  a  gentle- 
man, an  accomplishment  not  always  to  be  found  in  the 
"  best  society,"  as  the  phrase  goes,  —  whether  the  best  in 
fact  ever  lacks  it  is  another  thing.  Miss  Lucinda  appreci- 
ated these  traits,  —  they  set  her  at  ease ;  and  a  pleasanter 
home-life  could  scarce  be  painted  than  now  enlivened  the 
little  wooden  house.  But  three  weeks  pass  away  rapidly ; 
and  when  the  rusty  portmanteau,  was  gone  from  her  spare 
chamber,  and  the  well-worn  boots  from  the  kitchen-corner, 
and  the  hat  from  its  nail,  Miss  Lucinda  began  to  find  her- 
self wonderfully  lonely.  She  missed  the  armfuls  of  wood 
in  her  wood-box,  that  she  had  to  fill  laboriously,  two  sticks 
at  a  time;  she  missed  the  other  plate  at  her  tiny  round 
table,  the  other  chair  beside  her  fire ;  she  missed  that  dark, 
thin,  sensitive  face,  with  its  rare  and  sweet  smile;  she 
wanted  her  story-teller,  her  yarn-winder,  her  protector,  back 
again.  Good  gracious  !  to  think  of  an  old  lady  of  forty- 
seven  entertaining  such  sentiments  for  a  man  ! 


328  Miss  Lucinda. 

Presently  the  dancing-lessons  commenced.  It  was  thought 
advisable  that  Miss  Manners  should  enter  a  class,  and,  in 
the  fervency  of  her  good  intentions,  she  did  not  demur. 
But  gratitude  and  respect  had  to  strangle  with  persistent 
hands  the  little  serpents  of  the  ridiculous  in  Monsieur  Le- 
clerc's  soul,  when  he  beheld  his  pupil's  first  appearance. 
What  reason  was  it,  O  rose  of  seventeen,  adorning  thyself 
with  cloudy  films  of  lace  and  sparks  of  jewelry  before  the 
mirror  that  reflects  youth  and  beauty,  that  made  Miss  Lu- 
cinda array  herself  in  a  brand-new  dress  of  yellow  muslin- 
de-laine  strewed  with  round  green  spots,  and  displace  her 
customary  handkerchief  for  a  huge  tamboured  collar,  on 
this  eventful  occasion  ?  Why,  O  why  did  she  tie  up  the 
roots  of  her  black  hair  with  an  unconcealable  scarlet  string  ? 
And  most  of  all,  why  was  her  dress  so  short,  her  slipper- 
strings  so  big  and  broad,  her  thick  slippers  so  shapeless  by 
reason  of  the  corns  and  bunions  that  pertained  to  the  feet 
within  ?  The  "  instantaneous  rush  of  several  guardian 
angels "  that  once  stood  dear  old  Hepzibah  Pynchon  in 
good  stead  was  wanting  here,  —  or  perhaps  they  stood  by 
all-invisible,  their  calm  eyes  softened  with  love  deeper  than 
tears,  at  this  spectacle  so  ludicrous  to  man,  beholding  in 
the  grotesque  dress  and  adornments  only  the  budding  of 
life's  divinest  blossom,  and  in  the  strange  skips  and  hops 
of  her  first  attempts  at  dancing  only  the  buoyancy  of  those 
inner  wings  that  goodness  and  generosity  and  pure  self- 
devotion  were  shaping  for.  a  future  strong  and  stately  flight 
upward.  However,  men,  women,  and  children  do  not  see 
with  angelic  eyes,  and  the  titterings  of  her  fellow-pupils 
were  irrepressible  :  one  bouncing  girl  nearly  choked  herself 
with  her  handkerchief  trying  not  to  laugh,  and  two  or  three 
did  not  even  try.  Monsieur  Leclerc  could  not  blame  them, 
—  at  first  he  could  scarce  control  his  own  facial  muscles  ; 
but  a  sense  of  remorse  smote  him,  as  he  saw  how  uncon- 
scious and  earnest  the  little  woman  was,  and  remembered 
how  often  those  knotty  hands  and  knobbed  feet  had  waited 
on  his  need  or  his  comfort.  Presently  he  tapped  on  his 


Miss  L ucindd.  3  29 

violin  for  a  few  moments'  respite,  and  approached  Miss 
Lucinda  as  respectfully  as  if  she  had  been  a  queen. 

"  You  are  ver5  tired,  Mees  Lucinda  ?  "  said  he. 

"I  am  a  little,  sir,"  said  she,  out  of  breath.  "  I  am  not 
used  to  dancing  ;  it 's  quite  an  exertion." 

"  It  is  that  truly.  If  you  are  too  much  tired,  is  it  better 
to  wait?  I  shall  finish  for  you  the  lesson  till  I  come  to- 
night for  a  French  conversation  ? " 

"  I  guess  I  will  go  home,"  said  the  simple  little  lady.  "  I 
am  some  afraid  of  getting  rheumatism ;  but  use  makes 
perfect,  and  I  shall  stay  through  next  time,  no  doubt." 

"  So  I  believe,"  said  Monsieur,  with  his  best  bow,  as 
Miss  Lucinda  departed  and  went  home,  pondering  all  the 
way  what  special  delicacy  she  should  provide  for  tea. 

"  My  dear  young  friends,"  said  Monsieur  Leclerc,  pausing 
with  the  uplifted  bow  in  his  hand,  before  he  recommenced 
his  lesson,  "  I  have  observe  that  my  new  pupil  does  make 
you  much  to  laugh.  I  am  not  so  surprise,  for  you  do  not 
know  all,  and  the  good  God  does  not  robe  all  angels  in  one 
manner ;  but  she  have  taken  me  to  her  mansion  with  a  leg 
broken,  and  have  nursed  me  like  a  saint  of  the  blesse*d, 
nor  with  any  pay  of  silver  except  that  I  teach  her  the  dance 
and  the  French.  They  are  pay  for  the  meat  and  the  drink, 
but  she  will  have  no  more  for  her  good  patience  and  care. 
I  like  to  teach  you  the  dance,  but  she  could  teach  you  the 
saints'  ways  which  are  better.  I  think  you  will  no  more  to 
laugh." 

"No  !  I  guess  we  iworft!n  said  the  bouncing  girl  with 
great  emphasis,  and  the  color  rose  over  more  than  one 
young  face. 

After  that  day  Miss  Lucinda  received  many  a  kind  smile 
and  hearty  welcome,  and  never  did  anybody  venture  even  a 
grimace  at  her  expense.  But  it  must  be  acknowledged 
that  her  dancing  was  at  least  peculiar.  With  a  sanitary 
view  of  the  matter,  she  meant  to  make  it  exercise,  and  fear- 
ful was  the  skipping  that  ensued.  She  chasse'd  on  tiptoe, 
and  balanced  with  an  indescribable  hopping  twirl,  that 


33O  Miss  Lucinda. 

made  one  think  of  a  chickadee  pursuing  its  quest  of  food 
on  new-ploughed  ground ;  and  some  late-awakened  femi- 
nine instinct  of  dress,  restrained,  too,  by  due  economy, 
indued  her  with  the  oddest  decorations  that  woman  ever 
devised.  The  French  lessons  went  on  more  smoothly.  If 
Monsieur  Leclerc's  Parisian  ear  was  tortured  by  the  bar- 
barous accent  of  Vermont,  at  least  he  bore  it  with  heroism, 
since  there  was  nobody  else  to  hear ;  and  very  pleasant, 
both  to  our  little  lady  and  her  master,  were  these  long 
winter  evenings,  when  they  diligently  waded  through  Ra- 
cine, and  even  got  as  far  as  the  golden  periods  of  Chateau- 
briand. The  pets  fared  badly  for  petting  in  these  days  ; 
they  were  fed  and  waited  on,  but  not  with  the  old  devotion  ; 
it  began  to  dawn  on  Miss  Lucinda's  mind  that  something 
to  talk  to  was  preferable,  as  a  companion,  even  to  Fun,  and 
that  there  might  be  a  stranger  sweetness  in  receiving  care 
and  protection  than  in  giving  it. 

Spring  came  at  last.  Its  softer  skies  were  as  blue  over 
Dalton  as  in  the  wide  fields  without,  and  its  footsteps  as 
bloom-bringing  in  Miss  Lucinda's  garden  as  in  mead  or 
forest.  Now  Monsieur  Leclerc  came  to  her  aid  again  at 
odd  minutes,  and  set  her  flower-beds  with  mignonette  bor- 
ders, and  her  vegetable-garden  with  salad  herbs  of  new  and 
flourishing  kinds.  Yet  not  even  the  sweet  season  seemed 
to  hurry  the  catastrophe  that  we  hope,  dearest  reader,  thy 
tender  eyes  have  long  seen  impending.  No,  for  this  quaint 
alliance  a  quainter  Cupid  waited,  —  the  chubby  little  fellow 
with  a  big  head  and  a  little  arrow,  who  waits  on  youth  and 
loveliness,  was  not  wanted  here.  Lucinda's  God  of  Love 
wore  a  lank,  hard-featured,  grizzly  shape,  no  less  than  that 
of  Israel  Slater,  who  marched  into  the  garden  one  fine  June 
morning,  earlier  than  usual,  to  find  Monsieur  in  his  blouse, 
hard  at  work  weeding  the  cauliflower-bed. 

"  Good  mornin',  sir  !  good  mornin' ! "  said  Israel,  in  an- 
swer to  the  Frenchman's  greeting.  "This  is  a  real  slick 
little  garden-spot  as  ever  I  see,  and  a  pooty  house,  and  a 
real  clever  woman  too.  I  '11  be  skwitched,  ef  it  a'n't  a 


Miss  Lucinda.  331 

fust-rate  consarn,  the  hull  on 't.  Be  you  ever  a-goin'  back 
to  France,  Mister?" 

"  No,  my  goot  friend.  I  have  nobody  there.  I  stay 
here  ;  I  have  friend  here  :  but  there,  —  oh,  non  !  je  ne  re- 
•uiendrai pas  !  ah,  jamais  !  jamais  !  "  . 

"  Pa's  dead,  eh  ?  or  shamming  ?  Well,  I  don't  under- 
stand your  lingo  ;  but  ef  you  're  a-goin'  to  stay  here,  I  don't 
see  why  you  don't  hitch  bosses  with  Miss  Lucindy." 

Monsieur  Leclerc  looked  up  astonished. 

"  Horses,  my  friend  ?     I  have  no  horse  !  " 

"  Thunder  'n'  dry  trees  !  I  did  n't  say  you  bed,  did  I  ? 
But  that  comes  o'  usin'  what  Parson  Hyde  calls  figgurs,  I 
s'pose.  I  wish't  he'd  use  one  kind  o'  figgurin'  a  leetle 
more  ;  he  'd  pay  me  for  that  wood-sawin'.  I  did  n't  mean 
nothin'  about  horses.  I  sot  out  fur  to  say,  Why  don't  ye 
marry  Miss  Lucindy?" 

ft  I  ?  "  gasped  Monsieur,  —  "  I,  the  foreign,  the  poor  ?  I 
could  not  to  presume  so ! " 

"  Well,  I  don't  see 's  it 's  sech  drefful  presumption.  Ef 
you  're  poor,  she 's  a  woman,  and  real  lonesome  too ;  she 
ha'n't  got  nuther  chick  nor  child  belongin'  to  her,  and 
you  're  the  only  man  she  ever  took  any  kind  of  a  notion  to. 
I  guess  't  would  be  jest  as  much  for  her  good  as  yourn." 

"  Hush,  good  Is-ray-el !  it  is  good  to  stop  there.  She 
would  not  to  marry  after  such  years  of  goodness  :  she  is  a 
saint  of  the  blessed." 

"  Well,  I  guess  saints  sometimes  fellerships  with  sinners ; 
I  Ve  heerd  tell  they  did  ;  and  ef  I  was  you,  I  'd  make  trial 
for't.  Nothin'  ventur',  nothin'  have." 

Whereupon  Israel  walked  off,  whistling. 

Monsieur  Leclerc's  soul  was  perturbed  within  him  by 
these  suggestions  ;  he  pulled  up  two  young  cauliflowers 
and  reset  their  places  with  pigweeds ;  he  hoed  the  nicely- 
sloped  border  of  the  bed  flat  to  the  path,  and  then  flung 
the  hoe  across  the  walk,  and  went  off  to  his  daily  occupa- 
tion with  a  new  idea  in  his  head.  Nor  was  it  an  unpleas- 
ant one.  The  idea  of  a  transition  from  his  squalid  and 


33 2  Miss  Lucinda. 

pinching  boarding-house  to  the  delicate  comfort  of  Miss 
Lucinda's  menage,  the  prospect  of  so  kind  and  good  a  wife 
to  care  for  his  hitherto  dreaded  future,  —  all  this  was  pleas- 
ant. I  cannot  honestly  say  he  was  in  love  with  our  friend  ; 
I  must  even  confess .  that  whatever  element  of  that  nature 
existed  between  the  two  was  now  all  on  Miss  Lucinda's  side, 
little  as  she  knew  it.  Certain  it  is,  that,  when  she  appeared 
that  day  at  the  dancing-class  in  a  new  green  calico  flowered 
with  purple,  and  bows  on  her  slippers  big  enough  for  a 
bonnet,  it  occurred  to  Monsieur  Leclerc,  that,  if  they  were 
married,  she  would  take  no  more  lessons  !  However,  let 
us  not  blame  him  ;  he  was  a  man,  and  a  poor  one  ;  one 
must  not  expect  too  much  from  men,  or  from  poverty ;  if 
they  are  tolerably  good,  let  us  canonize  them  even,  it  is  so 
hard  for  the  poor  creatures  !  And  to  do  Monsieur  Leclerc 
justice,  he  had  a  very  thorough  respect  and  admiration  for 
Miss  Lucinda.  Years  ago,  in  his  stormy  youth-time,  there 
had  been  a  pair  of  soft-fringed  eyes  that  looked  into  his  as 
none  would  ever  look  again,  —  and  they  murdered  her,  those 
mad  wild  beasts  of  Paris,  in  the  chapel  where  she  knelt  at 
her  pure  prayers,  —  murdered  her  because  she  knelt  beside 
an  aristocrat,  her  best  friend,  the  Duchess  of  Montmorenci, 
who  had  taken  the  pretty  peasant  from  her  own  estate  to 
bring  her  up  for  her  maid.  Jean  Leclerc  had  lifted  that 
pale  shape  from  the  pavement  and  buried  it  himself ;  what 
else  he  buried  with  it  was  invisible  ;  but  now  he  recalled 
the  hour  with  a  long,  shuddering  sigh,  and,  hiding  his  face 
in  his  hands,  said  softly,  "  The  violet  is  dead,  —  there  is 
no  spring  for  her.  I  will  have  now  an  amaranth,  —  it  is 
good  for  the  tomb." 

Whether  Miss  Lucinda's  winter  dress  suggested  this  floral 
metaphor  let  us  not  inquire.  Sacred  be  sentiment,  when 
there  is  even  a  shadow  of  reality  about  it !  —  when  it  be- 
comes a  profession,  and  confounds  itself  with  millinery  and 
shades  of  mourning,  it  is  —  "  bosh,"  as  the  Turkeys  say. 

So  that  very  evening  Monsieur  Leclerc  arrayed  himself 
in  his  best,  to  give  another  lesson  to  Miss  Lucinda.  But, 


Miss  Lucinda.  333 

somehow  or  other,  the  lesson  was  long  in  beginning ;  the 
little  parlor  looked  so  home-like  and  so  pleasant,  with  its 
bright  lamp  and  gay  bunch  of  roses  on  the  table,  that  it 
was  irresistible  temptation  to  lounge  and  linger.  Miss 
Lucinda  had  the  volume  of  Florian  in  her  hands,  and  was 
wondering  why  he  did  not  begin,  when  the  book  was  drawn 
away,  and  a  hand  laid  on  both  of  hers. 

"  Lucinda ! "  he  began,  "  I  give  you  no  lesson  to-night. 
I  have  to  ask.  Dear  Mees,  will  you  to  marry  your  poor 
slave  ?  " 

"O  dear!"  said  Miss  Lucinda. 

Don't  laugh  at  her,  Miss  Tender-eyes  !  You  will  feel 
just  so  yourself  some  day,  when  Alexander  Augustus  says, 
"  Will  you  be  mine,  loveliest  of  your  sex  ?  "  only  you  won't 
feel  it  half  so  strongly,  for  you  are  young,  and  love  is 
Nature  to  youth,  but  it  is  a  heavenly  surprise  to  age. 

Monsieur  Leclerc  said  nothing.  He  had  a  heart  after  all, 
and  it  was  touched  now  by  the  deep  emotion  that  flushed 
Miss  Lucinda's  face,  and  made  her  tremble  so  violently,  — 
but  presently  he  spoke. 

"Do  not !  "  said  he.  "  I  am  wrong.  I  presume.  For- 
give the  stranger  !  " 

"  O  dear  !  "  said  poor  Lucinda  again,  —  "  O,  you  know 
it  is  n't  that !  but  how  can  you  like  me  ?  " 

There,  Mademoiselle  !  there 's  humility  for  you  !  you  will 
never  say  that  to  Alexander  Augustus  ! 

Monsieur  Leclerc  soothed  this  frightened,  happy,  incredu- 
lous little  woman  into  quiet  before  very  long ;  and  if  he 
really  began  to  feel  a  true  affection  for  her  from  the  moment 
he  perceived  her  humble  and  entire  devotion  to  him,  who 
shall  blame  him  ?  Not  I.  If  we  were  all  heroes,  who 
would  be  valet-de-chambre  ?  if  we  were  all  women,  who 
would  be  men  ?  He  was  very  good  as  far  as  he  went ;  and 
if  you  expect  the  chivalries  of  grace  out  of  Nature,  you 
"may  expect,"  as  old  Fuller  saith.  So  it  was  peacefully 
settled  that  they  should  be  married,  with  a  due  amount  of 
tears  and  smiles  on  Lucinda's  part,  and  a  great  deal  of 


334  Miss  Lucinda. 

tender  sincerity  on  Monsieur's.  She  missed  her  dancing- 
lesson  next  day,  and  when  Monsieur  Leclerc  came  in  the 
evening  he  found  a  shade  on  her  happy  face. 

"  O  dear  ! "  said  she,  as  he  entered. 

"  O  dear  !  *  was  Lu'cinda's  favorite  aspiration.  Had  she 
thought  of  it  as  an  Anglicizing  of  "  O  Dieu  !  "  perhaps  she 
would  have  dropped  it ;  but  this  time  she  went  on  head- 
long, with  a  valorous  despair, — = 

"  I  have  thought  of  something  !  I  'm  afraid  I  can't ! 
Monsieur,  are  n't  you  a  Romanist  ?  " 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  said  he,  surprised. 

"A  Papist,  — a  Catholic!" 

"  Ah  !  "  he  returned,  sighing,  "  once  I  was  bon  Catholique, 
—  once  in  my  gone  youth  ;  after  then  I  was  nothing  but  the 
poor  man  who  bats  for  his  life ;  now  I  am  of  the  religion 
that  shelters  the  stranger  and  binds  up  the  broken  poor." 

Monsieur  was  a  diplomatist.  This  melted  Miss  Lucinda's 
orthodoxy  right  down  ;  she  only  said,  — 

"  Then  you  will  go  to  church  with  me  ?  " 

"  And  to  the  skies  above,  I  pray,"  said  Monsieur,  kissing 
her  knotty  hand  like  a  lover. 

So  in  the  earliest  autumn  they  were  married,  Monsieur 
having  previously  presented  Miss  Lucinda  with  a  delicate 
plaided  gray  silk  for  her  wedding  attire,  in  which  she  looked 
almost  young  ;  and  old  Israel  was  present  at  the  ceremony, 
which  was  briefly  performed  by  Parson  Hyde  in  Miss 
Manners's  parlor.  They  did  not  go  to  Niagara,  nor  to 
Newport ;  but  that  afternoon  Monsieur  Leclerc  brought  a 
hired  rockaway  to  the  door,  and  took  his  bride  a  drive  into 
the  country.  They  stopped  beside  a  pair  of  bars,  where 
Monsieur  hitched  his  horse,  and,  taking  Lucinda  by  the 
hand,  led  her  into  Farmer  Steele's  orchard,  to  the  foot  of 
his  biggest  apple-tree.  There  she  beheld  a  little  mound,  at 
the  head  and  foot  of  which  stood  a  daily  rose-bush  shed- 
ding its  latest  wreaths  of  bloom,  and  upon  the  mound  itself 
was  laid  a  board  on  which  she  read,  —  "  Here  lie  the  bones 
of  poor  Piggy." 


Miss  Lucinda.  335 

Mrs.  Lucinda  burst  into  tears,  and  Monsieur,  picking  a 
bud  from  the  bush,  placed  it  in  her  hand,  and  led  her 
tenderly  back  to  the  rockaway.  • 

That  evening  Mrs.  Lucinda  was  telling  the  affair  to  old 
Israel  with  so  much  feeling  that  she  did  not  perceive  at  all 
the  odd  commotion  in  his  face,  till,  as  she  repeated  the 
epitaph  to  him,  he  burst  out  with,  — "  He  did  n't  say  what 
became  o'  the  flesh,  did  he  ?  "  —  and  therewith  fled  through 
the  kitchen-door.  For  years  afterward  Israel  would  enter- 
tain a  few  favored  auditors  with  his  opinion  of  the  matter, 
screaming  till  the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  — 

"  That  was  the  beateree  of  all  the  weddin'-towers  I  ever 
heerd  tell  on.  Goodness  !  it 's  enough  to  make  the  Wander- 
in'  Jew  die  o'  larfin' !  " 


THE    DENSLOW    PALACE. 


T  is  the  privilege  of  authors  and  artists  to  see  and 
to  describe  ;  to  "see  clearly  and  describe  vividly  " 
gives  the  pass  on  all  state  occasions.  It  is  the 
"  cap  of  darkness  "  and  the  talaria,  and  wafts  them  whither 
they  will.  The  doors  of  boudoirs  and  senate-chambers 
open  quickly,  and  close  after  them,  —  excluding  the  talent- 
less and  staring  rabble.  I,  who  am  one  of  the  humblest 
of  the  seers,  —  a  universal  admirer  of  all  things  beautiful 
and  great,  —  from  the  commonwealths  of  Plato  and  Solon, 
severally,  expulsed,  as  poet  without  music  or  politic,  and 
a  follower  of  the  great,  —  I,  from  my  dormitory,  or  nest, 
of  twelve  feet  square,  can,  at  an  hour's  notice,  or  less,  enter 
palaces,  and  bear  away,  unchecked  and  unquestioned,  those 
imagines  of  Des  Cartes  which  emanate  or  are  thrown  off 
from  all  forms,  —  and  this,  not  in  imagination,  but  in  the 
flesh. 

Whether  it  was  the  "tone  of  society"  which  pervaded 
my  "  Florentine  letters,"  or  my  noted  description  of  the 
boudoir  of  Egeria  Mentale,  I  could  not  just  now  determine  ; 
but  these,  and  other  humble  efforts  of  mine,  made  me 
known  in  palaces  as  a  painter  of  beauty  and  magnificence  ; 
and  I  have  been  in  demand,  to  do  for  wealth  what  wealth 
cannot  do  for  itself,  —  namely,  make  it  live  a  little,  or,  at 
least,  spread  as  far,  in  fame,  as  the  rings  of  a  stone-plash 
on  a  great  pond. 

I  enjoy  friendships  and  regards  which  would  satisfy  the 
most  fastidious.  Are  not  the  Denslows  enormously  rich  ? 


The  Denslow  Palace.  337 

Is  not  Dalton  a  sovereign  of  elegance  ?  It  was  I  who  gave 
the  fame  of  these  qualities  to  the  world,  in  true  colors,  not 
flattered.  And  they  know  it,  and  love  me.  Honoria  Dens- 
low  is  the  most  beautiful  and  truly  charming  woman  of 
society.  It  was  I  who  first  said  it ;  and  she  is  my  friend, 
and  loves  me.  I  defy  poverty ;  the  wealth  of  all  the  senses 
is  mine,  without  effort.  I  desire  not  to  be  one  of  those 
who  mingle  as  principals  and  sufferers ;  for  they  are  less 
causes  than  effects.  As  the  Florentine  in  the  Inferno  saw 
the  souls  of  unfortunate  lovers  borne  upon  a  whirlwind,  so 
have  I  seen  all  things  fair  and  precious,  —  outpourings  of 
wealth,  —  all  the  talents,  —  all  the  offerings  of  duty  and 
devotion, — angelic  graces  of  person  and  of  soul,  —  borne 
and  swept  violently  around  on  the  circular  gale.  Wealth 
is  only  an  enlargement  of  the  material  boundary,  and  leaves 
the  spirit  free  to  dash  to  and  fro,  and  exhaust  itself  in  vain 
efforts.  But  I  am  philosophizing,  —  oddly  enough,  —  when 
I  should  describe. 

An  exquisite  little  note  from  Honoria,  sent  at  the  last 
moment,  asking  me  to  be  present  that  evening  at  a  "  select " 
party,  which  was  to  open  the  "new  house,"  —  the  little 
palace  of  the  Denslows,  —  lay  beside  me  on  the  table.  It 
was  within  thirty  minutes  of  nine  o'clock,  the  hour  I  had 
fixed  for  going.  A  howling  winter  out  of  doors,  a  clear  fire 
glowing  in  my  little  grate.  My  arm-chair,  a  magnificent 
present  from  Honoria,  shaming  the  wooden  fixtures  of  the 
poor  room,  invited  to  meditation,  and  perhaps  the  composi- 
tion of  some  delicate  periods.  They  formed  slowly.  Time, 
it  is  said,  devours  all  things ;  but  imagination,  in  turn,  de- 
vours time,  —  an'd,  indeed,  swallowed  my  half-hour  at  a 
gulp.  The  neighboring  church-clock  tolled  nine.  I  was 
belated,  and  hurried  away. 

It  was  a  reunion  of  only  three  hundred  invitations,  se- 
lected by  my  friend  Dalton,  the  intimate  and  adviser  of 
Honoria.  So  happy  were  their  combinations,  scarce  a 
dozen  we're  absent  or  declined. 

At  eleven,  the  guests  began  to  assemble.  Introductions 
15  v 


338  The  Dens  low  Palace. 

were  almost  needless.  Each  person  was  a  recognized  mem- 
ber of  "  society."  One  half  of  the  number  were  women,  — 
many  of  them  young,  beautiful,  accomplished,  —  heiresses, 
."charming  widows,"  poetesses  of  real  celebrity,  and,  rarer 
still,  of  good  repute,  —  wives  of  millionnaires,  flashing  in 
satin  and  diamonds.  The  men,  on  their  side,  were  of  all 
professions  and  arts,  and  of  every  grade  of  celebrity,  from 
senator  to  merchant,  —  each  distinguished  by  some  personal 
attribute  or  talent ;  and  in  all  was  the  gift,  so  rare,  of  man- 
ners and  conversation.  It  was  a  company  of  undoubted 
gentlemen,  as  truly  entitled  to  respect  and  admiration  as 
if  they  stood  about  a  throne.  They  were  the  untitled 
nobility  of  Nature,  wealth,  and  genius. 

As  I  stood  looking,  with  placid  admiration,  from  a  recess, 
upon  a  brilliant  tableau  of  beautiful  women  and  celebrated 
men  that  had  accidentally  arranged  itself  before  me,  Dalton 
touched  my  arm. 

"  I  have  seen,"  said  he,  "  aristocratic  and  republican  r/- 
unions  of  the  purest  mode  in  Paris,  the  court  and  the 
banker's  circle  of  London,  conversazioni  at  Rome  and  Flor- 
ence. Every  face  in  this  room  is  intelligent,  and  nearly 
all  either  beautiful,  remarkable,  or  commanding.  Observe 
those  five  women  standing  with  Denslow  and  Adonais,  — 
grandeur,  sweetness,  grace,  form,  purity ;  each  has  an  at- 
tribute. It  is  a  rare  assemblage  of  superior  human  beings, 
The  world  cannot  surpass  it.  And,  by  the  by,  the  rooms 
are  superb." 

They  were  indeed  magnificent :  two  grand  suites,  on 
either  side  a  central  hall  of  Gothic  structure,  in  white 
marble,  with  light,  aerial  staircases  and  gilded  balconies. 
Each  suit  was  a  separate  miracle  :  the  height,  the  breath, 
the  columnal  divisions  ;  the  wonderful  delicacy  of  the  arches, 
upon  which  rested  ceilings  frescoed  with  incomparable  art. 
In  one  compartment  the  arches  and  caryatides  were  of 
black  marble ;  in  another,  of  snowy  Parian ;  in  a  third,  of 
wood,  exquisitely  carved,  and  joined  like  one  piece,  as  if 
it  were  a  natural  growth ;  vines  rising  at  the  bases  of  the 


The  Dens  low  Palace.  339 

walls,  and  spreading  under  the  roof.  There  was  no  forced 
consistency.  Forms  suitable  only  for  the  support  of  heavy 
masses  of  masonry,  or  for  the  solemn  effects  of  church 
interiors,  were  not  here  introduced.  From  straight  window- 
cornices  of  dark  wood,  slenderly  gilt,  but  richly  carved,  fell 
cataracts  of  gleaming  satin,  softened  in  effect  with  laces  of 
rare  appreciation. 

The  frescoes  and  panel-work  were  a  study  by  themselves, 
1  uniting  the  classic  and  modern  styles  in  allegorical  subjects. 
The  paintings,  selected  by  the  taste  of  Dalton,  to  over- 
power the  darkness  of  the  rooms  by  intensity  of  color, 
were  incorporated  with  the  walls.  There  were  but  few 
mirrors.  At  the  end  of  each  suite,  one,  of  fabulous  size, 
without  frame,  made  to  appear,  by  a  cunning  arrangement 
of  dark  draperies,  like  a  transparent  portion  of  the  wall 
itself,  extended  the  magnificence  of  the  apartments. 

Not  a  flame  nor  a  jet  was  anywhere  visible.  Tinted 
vases,  pendent,  or  resting  upon  pedestals,  distributed  har- 
monies and  thoughts  of  light  rather  than  light  itself;  and 
yet  all  was  visible,  effulgent.  The  columns  which  separated 
the  apartments  seemed  to  be  composed  of  masses  of  richly- 
colored  flames,  compelled,  by  some  ingenious  alchemy,  to 
assume  the  form  and  office  of  columns. 

In  New  York,  par  excellence  the  city  of  private  gorgeous- 
ness  and  petite  magnificence,  nothing  had  yet  been  seen 
equal  to  the  rooms  of  the  glorious  Denslow  Palace.  Even 
Dalton,  the  most  capricious  and  critical  of  men,  whose  nice 
vision  had  absorbed  the  elegancies  of  European  taste,  pro- 
nounced them  superb.  The  upholstery  and  ornamentation 
were  composed  under  the  direction  of  celebrated  artists. 
Palmer  was  consulted  on  the  marbles.  Page  (at  Rome) 
advised  the  cartoons  for  the  frescoes,  and  gave  laws  for  the 
colors  and  disposition  of  the  draperies.  The  paintings, 
panelled  in  the  walls,  were  modern,  triumphs  of  the  art 
and  genius  of  the  New  World. 

Until  the  hour  for  dancing,  prolonged  melodies  of  themes 
modulated  in  the  happiest  moments  of  the  great  composers. 


34O  The  Dens  low  Palace. 

floated  in  the  perfumed  air  from  a  company  of  unseen 
musicians,  while  the  guests  moved  through  the  vast  apart- 
ments, charmed  or  exalted  by  their  splendor,  or  conversed 
in  groups,  every  voice  subdued  and  intelligent. 

At  midnight  began  the  modish  music  of  the  dance,  and 
groups  of  beautiful  girls  moved  like  the  atoms  of  Chladni 
on  the  vibrating  crystal,  with  their  partners,  to  the  sound 
of  harps  and  violins,  in  pleasing  figures  or  inebriating 
spirals. 

When  supper  was  served,  the  ivory  fronts  of  a  cabinet 
of  gems  divided  itself  in  the  centre,  —  the  two  halves  re- 
volving upon  silver  hinges,  —  and  discovered  a  hall  of 
great  height  and  dimensions,  walled  with  crimson  damask, 
supporting  pictures  of  all  the  masters  of  modern  art.  The 
dome-like  roof  of  this  hall  was  of  marble  variously  colored, 
and  the  floor  tessellated  and  mosaicked  in  grotesque  and 
graceful  figures  of  Vesuvian  lavas  and  painted  porcelain. 

The  tables,  couches,  chairs,  and  vis-a-vis  in  this  hall 
were  of  plain  pattern  and  neutral  dead  colors,  not  to  over- 
power or  fade  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  or  the  gold  and 
Parian  service  of  the  cedar  tables. 

But  the  chief  beauty  of  this  unequalled  supper-room  was 
an  immense  bronze  candelabrum,  which  rose  in  the  centre 
from  a  column  of  black  marble.  It  was  the  figure  of  an 
Italian  elm,  slender  and  of  thin  foliage,  embraced,  almost 
enveloped,  in  a  vine,  which  reached  out  and  supported  itself 
in  hanging  from  all  the  branches ;  the  twigs  bearing  fruit, 
not  of  grapes,  but  of  a  hundred  little  spheres  of  crimson, 
violet,  and  golden  light,  whose  combination  produced  a  soft 
atmosphere  of  no  certain  color. 

Neither  Honoria,  Dalton,  nor  myself  remained  long  in 
the  gallery.  We  retired  with  a  select  few,  and  were  served 
in  an  antechamber,  separated  from  the  grand  reception- 
room  by  an  arch,  through  which,  by  putting  aside  a  silk 
curtain,  Honoria  could  see,  at  a  distance,  any  that  entered, 
as  they  passed  in  from  the  hall. 

My  own  position  was  such  that  I  could  look  over  her 


The  Dens  low  Palace.  341 

shoulder  and  see  as  she  saw.  Vis-a-vis  with  her,  and  con- 
sequently with  myself,  was  Adonais,  a  celebrated  author, 
and  person  of  the  beau  monde.  On  his  left,  Dalton,  always 
mysteriously  elegant  and  dangerously  witty.  Denslow  and 
Jeffrey  Lethal,  the  critic,  completed  our  circle.  The  con- 
versation was  easy,  animated,  personal. 

"You  are  fortunate  in  having  a  woman  of  taste  to 
manage  your  entertainments,"  said  Lethal,  in  answer  to  a 
remark  of  Denslow's,  —  "but  in  bringing  these  people  to- 
gether she  has  made  a  sad  blunder." 

"  And  what  may  that  be  ?  "  inquired  Dalton,  mildly. 

"  Your  guests  are  too  well  behaved,  too  fine,  and  on  their 
guard ;  there  are  no  butts,  no  palpable  fools  or  vulgarians , 
and,  worse,  there  are  many  distinguished,  but  no  one  great 
man,  —  no  social  or  intellectual  sovereign  of  the  occasion." 

Honoria  looked  inquiringly  at  Lethal.  "  Pray,  Mr.  Lethal, 
tell  me  who  he  is  ?  I  thought  there  was  no  such  person  in 
America,"  she  added,  with  a  look  of  reproachful  inquiry  at 
Dalton  and  myself,  as  if  we  should  have  found  this  sover- 
eign and  suggested  him. 

"You  are  right,  my  dear  queen;  Lethal  is  joking,"  re- 
sponded Dalton;  "we  are  a  democracy,  and  have  only  a 
queen  of — " 

"Water  ices,"  interrupted  Lethal;  "but,  as  for  the  king 
you  seek,  as  democracies  finally  come  to  that  —  " 

"  Good  Heavens ! "  exclaimed  Honoria,  raising  the  cur- 
tain, "  it  must  be  he  that  is  coming  in." 

Honoria  frowned  slightly,  rose,  and  advanced  to  meet  a 
new-comer,  who  had  entered  unannounced,  and  was  advanc- 
ing alone.  Dalton  followed  to  support  her.  I  observed 
their  movements,  —  Lethal  and  Adonais  using  my  face  as  a 
mirror  of  what  was  passing  beyond  the  curtain. 

The  masses  of  level  light  from  the  columns  on  the  left 
seemed  to  envelop  the  stranger,  who  came  toward  us  from 
the  entrance,  as  if  he  had  divined  the  presence  of  Honoria 
in  the  alcove. 

He  was  about  the  middle  height,  Napoleonic  in  form  and 


342  The  Denslow  Palace. 

bearing,  with  features  of  marble  paleness,  firm,  and  sharply 
defined.  His  hair  and  magnificent  Asiatic  beard  were  jetty 
black,  curling,  and  naturally  disposed.  Under  his  dark  and 
solid  brows  gleamed  large  eyes  of  abysmal  blackness  and 
intensity. 

"Is  it  Lord  N ?  "  whispered  Lethal,  moved  from  his 

habitual  coldness  by  the  astonishment  which  he  read  in  my 
face. 

"Senator  D , perhaps,"  suggested  Denslow,  whose 

ideas,  like  his  person,  aspired  to  the  senatorial. 

"  Dumas,"  hinted  Adonais,  an  admirer  of  French  litera- 
ture. "  I  heard  he  was  expected." 

"No,"  I  answered,  "but  certainly  in  appearance  the  most 
noticeable  man  living.  Let  us  go  out  and  be  introduced." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Lethal,  "  it  is  the  d— ." 

All  rose  instantly  at  the  idea,  and  we  went  forward,  urged 
by  irresistible  curiosity. 

As  we  drew  near  the  stranger,  who  was  conversing  with 
Honoria  and  Dalton,  a  shudder  went  through  me.  It  was 
a  thrill  of  the  universal  Boswell ;  I  seemed  to  feel  the 
presence  of  "the  most  aristocratic  man  of  the  age." 

Honoria  introduced  me.  "  My  Lord  Duke,  allow  me  to 
present  my  friend,  Mr.  De  Vere ;  Mr.  De  Vere,  the  Duke 
of  Rosecouleur." 

Was  I,  then,  face  to  face  with,  nay,  touching  the  hand  of 
a  highness,  —  and  that  highness  the  monarch  of  the  ton  ? 
And  is  this  a  ducal  hand,  white  as  the  albescent  down  of 
the  eider-duck,  which  presses  mine  with  a  tender  touch,  so 
haughty  and  so  delicately  graduated  to  my  standing  as 
"  friend  "  of  the  exquisite  Honoria?  It  was  too  much;  I 
could  have  wept ;  my  senses  rather  failed. 

Dalton  fell  short  of  himself ;  for,  though  his  head  stooped 
to  none,  unless  conventionally,  the  sudden  and  unaccount- 
able presence  of  the  Duke  of  Rosecouleur  annoyed  and 
perplexed  him.  His  own  sovereignty  was  threatened. 

Lethal  stiffened  himself  to  the  ordeal  of  an  introduction ; 
the  affair  seemed  to  exasperate  him.  Denslow  alone,  of 


The  Dens  low  Palace.  343 

the  men,  was  in  his  element.  Pompous  and  soft,  he  "  cot- 
toned "  to  the  grandeur  with  the  instinct  of  a  born  satellite, 
and  his  eyes  grew  brighter,  his  body  more  shining  and 
rotund,  his  back  more  concave.  His  bon-vivant  tones,  jolly 
and  conventional,  sounded  a  pure  barytone  to  the  clear 
soprano  of  Honoria,  in  the  harmony  of  an  obsequious  wel- 
come. 

The  Duke  of  Rosecouleur  glanced  around  him  approv- 
ingly upon  the  apartments.  I  believed  that  he  had  never 
seen  anything  more  beautiful  than  the  petite  palace  of 
Honoria,  or  more  ravishing  than  herself.  He  said  little, 
in  a  low  voice,  and  always  to  one  person  at  a  time.  His 
answers  and  remarks  were  simple  and  well-turned. 

Dalton  allowed  the  others  to  move  on,  and  by  a  slight 
sign  drew  me  to  him. 

"  It  is  unexpected,"  he  said,  in  a  thoughtful  manner,  look- 
ing me  full  in  the  eyes. 

"You  knew  the  Duke  of  Rosecouleur  in  Europe  ?  " 

"At  Paris,  yes,  —  and  in  Italy  he  was  a  travel  friend; 
but  we  heard  lately  that  he  had  retired  upon  his  estates  in 
England ;  and  certainly,  he  is  the  last  person  we  looked  for 
here." 

"  Unannounced." 

"  That  is  a  part  of  the  singularity." 

"  His  name  was  not  in  the  published  list  of  arrivals  ;  but 
he  may  have  left  England  incognito.  Is  a  mistake  possi- 
ble?" 

"No!  there  is  but 'one  such  man  in  Europe;  —  a  hand- 
somer or  a  richer  does  not  live." 

"An  eye  of  wonderful  depth." 

"  Hands  exquisite." 

"Feet,  ditto." 

"And  his  dress  and  manner." 

"  Unapproachable ! " 

"  Not  a  shadow  of  pretence  ;  —  the  essence  of  good- 
breeding  founded  upon  extensive  knowledge,  and  a  thorough 
sense  of  position  and  its  advantages  ;  —  in  fact,  the  Napo- 
leon of  the  parlor." 


344  The  Denslow  Palace. 

"But,  Dalton,"  said  I,  nervously,  "no  one  attends  him." 
"  No,  —  I  thought  so  at  first ;  but  do  you  see  that  Me- 
phistophelean figure,  in  black,  who  follows  the  Duke  a  few 
paces  behind,  and  is  introduced  to  no  one  ?  " 

"  Yes.  A  singular  creature,  truly  !  —  how  thin  he  is  !  " 
"  That  shadow  that  follows  his  Highness  is,  in  fact,  the 
famous  valet,  Reve  de  Noir,  —  the  prince  of  servants.  The 
Duke  goes  nowhere  without  this  man  as  a  shadow.  He 
asserts  that  Reve  de  Noir  has  no  soul ;  and  I  believe  him. 
The  face  is  that  of  a  demon.  It  is  a  separate  creation, 
equally  wonderful  with  the  master,  but  not  'human.  He 
was  condensed  out  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  great  world." 

As  we  were  speaking,  we  observed  a  crowd  of  distin- 
guished persons  gathered  about  and  following  his  Highness, 
as  he  moved.  He  spoke  now  to  one,  now  to  another. 
Honoria,  fascinated,  her  beauty  every  instant  becoming 
more  radiant,  just  leaned,  with  the  lightest  pressure,  upon 
the  Duke's  arm.  They  were  promenading  through  the 
rooms.  The  music,  soft  and  low,  continued,  but  the  groups 
of  dancers  broke  up,  the  loiterers  in  the  gallery  came  in, 
and  as  the  sun  draws  his  fifty,  perhaps  his  hundreds  of 
planets,  circling  around  and  near  him,  this  noble  luminary 
centred  in  himself  the  attention  of  all.  If  they  could  not 
speak  with  him,  they  could  at  least  speak  of  him.  If  they 
could  not  touch  his  hand,  the'y  could  pass  before  him  and 
give  one  glance  at  his  eyes.  The  less  aristocratic  were 
even  satisfied  for  the  moment  with  watching  the  singular 
being,  Reve  de  Noir, — who  caught  no  one's  eye,  seemed 
to  see  no  one  but  his  master,  —  and  yet  was  not  here  nor 
there,  nor  in  any  place,  —  never  in  the  way,  a  thing  of  air, 
and  not  tangible,  but  only  black. 

At  a  signal,  he  would  advance  and  present  to  his  master 
a  perfume,  a  laced  handkerchief,  a  rose  of  rubies,  a  diamond 
clasp;  of  many  with  whom  he  spoke  the  liberal  Duke 
begged  the  acceptance  of  some  little  token,  as  an  earnest 
of  his  esteem.  After  interchanging  a  few  words  with  Jeffrey 
Lethal,  -^-  who  dared  not  utter  a  sarcasm,  though  he  chafed 


The  Denslow  Palace.  345 

visibly  under  the  restraint, — the  Duke's  tasteful  generosity 
suggested  a  seal  ring,  with  an  intaglio  head  of  Swift  cut 
in  opal,  the  mineral  emblem  of  wit,  which  dulls  in  the  sun- 
light of  fortune,  and  recovers  its  fiery  points  in  the  shade 
of  adversity ;  —  Reve  de  Noir,  with  a  movement  so  slight, 
't  was  like  the  flitting  of  a  bat,  placed  the  seal  in  the  hand 
of  the  Duke,  who,  with  a  charming  and  irresistible  grace, 
compelled  Lethal  to  receive  it. 

To  Denslow,  Honoria,  Dalton,  and  myself  he  offered 
nothing.  Strange? — Not  at  all.  Was  he  not  the  guest, 
and  had  not  I  been  presented  to  him  by  Honoria  as  her 
"friend?"  —  a  word  of  pregnant  meaning  to  a  Duke  of 
Rosecouleur ! 

To  Adonais  he  gave  a  lock  of  hair  of  the  great  novelist, 
Dumas,  in  a  locket  of  yellow  tourmaline,  —  a  stone  usually 
black.  Lethal  smiled  at  this.  He  felt  relieved.  "The 
Duke,"  thought  he,  "must  be  a  humorist." 

From  my  coarse  way  of  describing  this,  you  would  sup- 
pose that  it  was  a  farcical  exhibition  of  vulgar  extravagance, 
and  the  Duke  a  madman  or  an  impostor  ;  but  the  effect  was 
different.  It  was  done  with  grace,  and,  in  the  midst  of  so 
much  else,  it  attracted  only  that  side  regard,  at  intervals, 
which  is  sure  to  surprise  and  excite  awe. 

Honoria  had  almost  ceased  to  converse  with  us.  It  was 
painful  to  her  to  talk  with  any  person.  She  followed  the 
Duke  with  her  eyes.  When,  by  some  delicate  allusion  or 
attention,  he  let  her  perceive  that  she  was  in  his  thoughts,  a 
mantling  color  overspread  her  features,  and  then  gave  way 
to  paleness,  and  a  manner  which  attracted  universal  remark. 
It  was  then  Honoria  abdicated  that  throne  of  conventional 
purity  which  hitherto  she  had  held  undisputed.  Women 
who  were  plain  in  her  presence  outshone  Honoria,  by  meet- 
ing this  ducal  apparition,  that  called  itself  Rosecouleur,  — 
and  which  might  have  been,  for  aught  they  knew,  a  fume 
of  the  Infernal,  shaped  to  deceive  us  all, — with  calm  and 
haughty  propriety. 

The  sensation  did  not  subside.  The  music  of  the  waltz 
15* 


The  Denslow  Palace. 

invited  a  renewal  of  that  intoxicating  whirl  which  isolates 
friends  and  lovers,  in  whispering  and  sighing  pairs,  in  the 
midst  of  a  great  assemblage.  All  the  world  looked  on,  when 
Honoria  Denslow  placed  her  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the 
Duke  of  Rosecouleur,  and  the  noble  and  beautiful  forms 
began  silently  and  smoothly  turning,  with  a  dream-like  mo- 
tion. Soon  she  lifted  her  lovely  eyes  and  steadied  their 
rays  upon  his.  She  leaned  wholly  upon  his  arm,  and  the 
gloved  hands  completed  the  magnetic  circle.  At  the  close 
of  the  first  waltz,  she  rested  a  moment,  leaning  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  his  hand  still  held  hers,  —  a  liberty  often  as- 
sumed and  permitted,  but  not  to  the  nobles  and  the  mon- 
archs  of  society.  She  fell  farther,  and  her  ideal  beauty 
faded  into  a  sensuous. 

Honoria  was  lost.  Dalton  saw  it.  We  retired  together 
to  a  room  apart.  He  was  dispirited ;  called  for  and  drank 
rapidly  a  bottle  of  Champagne  ;  —  it  was  insufficient. 

"  De  Vere,"  said  he,  «  affairs  go  badly." 

"  Explain." 

"This  cursed  thing  that  people  call  a  duke  —  it  kills 
me." 

"  I  saw." 

"  Of  course  you  did ;  —  the  world  saw  ;  the  servants 
saw.  Honoria  has  fallen  to-night.  I  shall  transfer  my 
allegiance." 

"  And  Denslow  ?  " 

"  A  born  sycophant ;  —  he  thinks  it  natural  that  his  wife 
should  love  a  duke,  and  a  duke  love  his  wife." 

"  So  would  you,  if  you  were  any  other  than  you  are." 

"  Faugh  !  it  is  human  nature." 

"  Not  so  ;  would  you  not  as  soon  strangle  this  Rosecou- 
leur for  making  love  to  your  wife  in  public,  as  you  would 
another  man  ?  " 

"  Rather." 

"  Pooh  !  I  give  you  up.  If  you  had  simply  said,  *  Yes,' 
it  would  have  satisfied  me." 

Dalton  seemed  perplexed.     He  called  a  servant  and  sent 


The  Denslow  Palace.  347 

him  with  an  order  for  Nalson,  the  usher,  to  come  instantly 
to  him. 

Nalson  appeared  with  his  white  gloves  and  mahogany 
face. 

"  Nalson,  you  were  a  servant  of  the  Duke  in  Eng- 
land?" / 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Is  the  person  now  in  the  rooms  the  Duke  of  Rosecou- 
leur  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  seen  him,  sir." 

"  Go  immediately,  study  the  man  well,  —  do  you  hear  ?  — 
and  come  to  me.  Let  no  one  know  your  purpose." 

Nalson  disappeared. 

I  was  alarmed.  If  "the  Duke"  should  prove  to  be  an 
impostor,  we  were  indeed  ruined. 

In  five  minutes,  —  an  hour,  it  seemed,  —  Nalson  stood 
before  us. 

"  Is  it  he  ? "  said  Dalton,  looking  fixedly  upon  the  face  of 
the  usher. 

No  reply. 

"  Speak  the  truth  ;  you  need  not  be  afraid." 

"  I  cannot  tell,  sir." 

"  Nonsense  !  go  and  look  again." 

"It  is  of  no  use,  Mr.  Dalton ;  you,  who  are  as  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  personal  appearance  of  his  Highness  as 
I  am,  you  have  been  deceived,  —  if  I  have." 

"  Nalson,  do  you  believe  that  this  person  is  an  impostor  ?" 
said  Dalton  pointing  at  myself. 

"Who?    Mr.  De  Vere,  sir?" 

"  If,  then,  you  know  at  sight  that  this  gentleman  is  my 
friend  Mr.  De  Vere,  why  do  you  hesitate  about  the  other  ?  " 

"  But  the  imitation  is  perfect  And  there  is  Reve  de 
Noir." 

"  Yes,  did  Reve  de  Noir  recognize  you  ?  " 

"I  have  not  caught  his  eye.  You  know,  sir,  that  this 
Reve  is  not,  and  never  was  like  other  men ;  he  is  a  devil. 
One  knows,  and  one  does  not  know  him." 


348  The  Denslow  Palace. 

"  Were  you  at  the  door  when  the  Duke  entered  ?  " 

"I  think  not;  at  least  —  I  cannot  tell.  When  I  first 
saw  him,  he  was  in  the  room,  speaking  with  Madam  Dens- 
low." 

"  Nalson,  you  have  done  wrong ;  no  one  should  have  en- 
tered unannounced.  Send  the  doorkeeper  to  me." 

The  doorkeeper  came ;  a  gigantic  negro,  magnificently 
attired. 

"Jupiter,  you  were  at  the  door  when  the  Duke  of  Rose- 
couleur  entered  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Did  the  Duke  and  his  man  come  in  a  carriage  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,— a  hack." 

"  You  may  go.  They  are  not  devils,"  said  Dalton  mus- 
ingly, "  or  they  would  not  have  come  in  a  carriage." 

"  You  seem  to  have  studied  the  spiritual  mode  of  loco- 
motion," said  I. 

Dalton  frowned.     "  This  is  serious,  De  Vere." 

"What  mean  you?" 

"  I  mean  that  Denslow  is  a  bankrupt." 

"  Explain  yourself." 

"You  know  what  an  influence  he  carries  in  political 

circles.     The-G rs,  the  S es,  and  their  kind,  have 

more  talent,  but  Denslow  enjoys  the   secret  of  popular- 
ity." 

"Well,  I  know  it." 

"  In  the  middle  counties,  where  he  owns  vast  estates,  and 
has  been  liberal  to  debtors  and  tenants,  he  carries  great  fa- 
vor ;  both  parties  respect  him  for  his  ignorance  and  pompos- 
ity, which  they  mistake  for  simplicity  and  power,  as  usual. 
The  estates  are  mortgaged  three  deep,  and  wjll  not  hold  out 
a  year.  The  shares  of  the  Millionnaire's  Hotel  and  the  Poor 
Man's  Bank  in  the  B y  are  worthless.  Denslow's  rail- 
road schemes  have  absorbed  the  capital  of  those  concerns." 

"  But  he  had  three  millions." 

"Nominally.  This  palace  has  actually  sunk  his  in- 
come." 


The  Denslow  Palace.  349 

«  Madness  !  " 

u  Wisdom,  if  you  will  listen.' 

"  I  am  all  attention." 

"  The  use  of  money  is  to  create  and  hold  power.  Dens- 
low  was  certain  of  the  popular  and  county  votes ;  he 

needed  only  the  aristocratic  support,  and  the  A people 

would  have  made  him  Senator." 

"  Fool,  why  was  he  not  satisfied  with  his  money  ?  " 

"  Do  you  call  the  farmer  fool,  because  he  is  not  satisfied 
with  the  soil,  but  wishes  to  grow  wheat  thereon  ?  Money 
is  the  soil  of  power.  For  much  less  than  a  million  one  may 
gratify  the  senses  ;  great  fortunes  are  not  for  sensual  luxu- 
ries, but  for  those  of  the  soul.  To  the  facts,  then.  The 
advent  of  this  mysterious  duke,  —  whom  I  doubt,  —  hailed 
by  Denslow  and  Honoria  as  a  piece  of  wonderful  good-for- 
tune, has  already  shaken  him  and  ruined  the  prestige  of  his 
wife.  They  are  mad  and  blind," 

"  Tell  me,  in  plain  prose,  the  how  and  the  why" 

"  De  Vere,  you  are  dull.  There  are  three  hundred  peo- 
ple, in  the  rooms  of  the  Denslow  Palace ;  these  people 
are  the  '  aristocracy.'  They  control  the  sentiments  of  the 
'  better  class.'  Opinion,  like  dress,  descends  from  them. 
They  no  longer  respect  Denslow,  and  their  women  have 
seen  the  weakness  of  Honoria." 

"  Yes,  but  Denslow  still  has  *  the  people.'  " 

"  That  is  not  enough.  I  have  calculated  the  chances,  and 
mustered  all  our  available  force.  We  shall  have  no  support 
among  the  '  better  class '  since  we  are  disgraced  with  the 
'  millionriaires.' " 

At  this  moment  Denslow  came  in. 

"  Ah  !  Dalton,  — like  you  !  I  have  been  looking  for  you 
to  show  the  pictures.  Devil  a  thing  I  know  about  them. 
The  Duke  wondered  at  your  absence." 

"Where  is  Honoria?" 

"Ill,  ill,  —  fainted.  The  house  is  new;  smell  of  new 
wood  and  mortar ;  deused  disagreeable  in  Honoria.  If  it 
had  not  been  for  the  Duke,  she  would  have  fallen.  That 's 


3  SO  The  Dens  low  Palace. 

a  monstrous  clever  fellow,  that  Rosecouleur.  Admires  Ho- 
noria  vastly.  Come,  —  the  pictures." 

"  Mr.  John  Vanbrugen  Denslow,  you  are  an  ass  !  " 

The  large,  smooth,  florid  millionnaire,  dreaming  only  of 
senatorial  honors,  the  shouts  of  the  multitude,  and  the 
adoration  of  a  party  press,  cowered  like  a  dog  under  the 
lash  of  the  "  man  of  society." 

"  Rather  rough,  —  ha,  De  Vere  ?  What  have  /  done  ? 
Am  I  an  ass  because  I  know  nothing  of  pictures  ?  Come. 
Dalton,  you  are  harsh  with  your  old  friend." 

"  Denslow,  I  have  told  you  a  thousand  times  never  to 
concede  position." 

"  Yes,  but  this  is  a  duke,  man,  —  a  prince  !  " 

"  This  from  you  ?  By  Jove,  De  Vere,  I  wish  you  and  I 
could  live  a  hundred  years,  to  see  a  republican  aristocrat. 
We  are  still  mere  provincials,"  added  Dalton,  with  a  sigh. 

Denslow  perspired  with  mortification. 

"  You  use  me  badly,  —  I  tell  you,  Dalton,  this  Rosecou- 
leur is  a  devil.  Condescend  to  him  !  be  haughty  and — what 
do  you  call  it  ?  —  urbane  to  him  !  I  defy  you  to  do  it,  with 
all  your  impudence.  Why,  his  valet,  that  shadow  that  glides 
after  him,  is  too  much  for  me.  Try  him  yourself,  man." 

"Who,  the  valet?" 

"  No,  the  master,  — though  I  might  have  said  the  valet." 

"  Did  I  yield  in  Paris  ? " 

"  No,  but  you  were  of  the  embassy,  and  —  and  —  no  one 
really  knew  us,  you  know." 

Dalton  pressed  his  lips  hard  together. 

"Come,"  said  he,  "  De  Vere,  let  us  try  a  fall  with  this 
Titan  of  the  carpet." 

Denslow  hastened  back  to  the  Duke.  I  followed  Dalton ; 
but  as  for  me,  bah  !  I  am  a  cipher. 

The  room  in  which  we  were  adjoined  Honoria's  boudoir, 
from  which  a  secret  passage  led  down  by  a  spiral  to  a  panel 
behind  hangings ;  raising  these,  one  could  enter  the  draw- 
ing-room unobserved.  Dalton  paused  midway  in  the  secret 
passage,  and  through  a  loop  or  narrow  window,  concealed 


The  Dens  low  Palace.  351 

by  architectural  ornaments,  and  which  overlooked  the  great 
drawing-rooms,  made  a  reconnaissance  of  the  field. 

Nights  of  Venice  !  what  a  scene  was  there  !  The  vine- 
branch  chandeliers,  crystal-fruited,  which  depended  from  the 
slender  ribs  of  the  ceiling,  cast  a  rosy  dawn  of  light,  deepen- 
ing the  green  and  crimson  of  draperies  and  carpets,  making 
an  air  like  sunrise  in  the  bowers  of  a  forest.  Form  and  or- 
der were  everywhere  visible,  though  unobtrusive.  Arch 
beyond  arch,  to  fourth  apartments,  lessening  in  dimension, 
with  increase  of  wealth;  —  groups  of  beautiful  women,  on 
either  hand,  seated  or  half  reclined ;  the  pure  or  rich  hues 
of  their  robes  blending  imperceptibly,  or  in  gorgeous  con- 
trasts, with  the  soft  outlines  and  colors  of  their  supports  ;  a 
banquet  for  the  eyes  and  the  mind  ;  the  perfect  work  of  art 
and  culture;  —  gliding  about  and  among  these,  or,  with 
others,  springing  and  revolving  in  that  monarch  of  all  meas- 
ures, which  blends  luxury  and  purity,  until  it  is  either  the 
one  or  the  other,  moved  the  men. 

"  That  is  my  work,"  exclaimed  Dalton,  unconsciously. 

"  Not  all,  I  think." 

"  I  mean  the  combinations,  —  the  effect.  But  see  !  Ho- 
noria  will  again  accept  the  Duke's  invitation.  He  is  coming 
to  her.  Let  us  prevent  it." 

He  slipped  away  ;  and  I,  remaining  at  my  post  of  obser- 
vation, saw  him,  an  instant  later,  passing  quickly  across  the 
floor  among  the  dancers,  toward  Honoria.  -  The  Duke  of 
Rosecouleur  arrived  at  the  same  instant  before  her.  She 
smiled  sorrowfully  upon  Dalton,  and  held  out  her  hand  in  a 
languid  manner  toward  the  Duke,  and  again  they  floated 
away  upon  the  eddies  of  the  music.  I  followed  them  with 
eyes  fixed  in  admiration.  It  was  a  vision  of  the  orgies  of 
Olympus,  —  Zeus  and  Aphrodite  circling  to  a  theme  of 
Chronos. 

Had  Honoria  tasted  of  the  Indian  drug,  the  weed  of  para- 
dise ?  Her  eyes,  fixed  upon  the  Duke's,  shone  like  molten 
sapphires.  A  tress  of  chestnut  hair,  escaping  from  the  dia- 
mond coronet,  sprang  lovingly  forward  and  twined  itself 


352  The  Dens  low  Palace. 

over  her  white  shoulder  and  still  fairer  bosom.  Tints  like 
flitting  clouds,  Titianic,  the  mystery  and  despair  of  art,  dis- 
closed to  the  intelligent  eye  the  feeling  that  mastered  her 
spirit  and  her  sense.  Admirable  beauty  !  Unrivalled,  un- 
happy !  The  Phidian  idol  of  gold  and  ivory,  into  which 
a  demon  had  entered,  overthrown,  and  the  worshippers 
gazing  on  it  with  a  scorn  unmixed  with  pity  ! 

The  sullen  animal  rage  of  battle  is  nothing  to  the  livor, 
the  burning  hatred  of  the  drawing-room.  Dalton,  defeated, 
cast  a  glance  of  deadly  hostility  on  the  Duke.  Nor  was  it 
lost.  While  the  waltz  continued,  for  ten  minutes,  he  stood 
motionless.  Fearing  some  untoward  event,  I  came  down 
and  took  my  place  near  him. 

The  Duke  led  Honoria  to  a  sofa.  But  for  his  arm  she 
would  again  have  fallen.  Dalton  had  recovered  his  courage 
and  natural  haughtiness.  The  tone  of  his  voice,  rich,  ten- 
der, and  delicately  expressive,  did  not  change. 

"  Honoria,  you  sent  for  me;  and  the  Duke  wishes  to  see 
the  pictures.  The  air  of  the  gallery  will  relieve  your  faint- 
ness." 

He  offered  his  arm,  which  she,  rising  mechanically,  ac- 
cepted. A  deep  blush  crimsoned  her  features,  at  the  allu- 
sion to  her  weakness.  Several  of  the  guests  moved  after 
us,  as  we  passed  into  the  gallery.  The  Duke's  shadow, 
Reve  de  Noir,  following  last,  closed  the  ivory  doors.  We 
passed  through  the  gallery,  —  where  pyramids  of  sunny 
fruits,  in  baskets  of  fine  porcelain,  stood  relieved  by  gold 
and  silver  services  for  wine  and  coffee,  disposed  on  the 
tables,  —  and  thence  entered  another  and  smaller  room, 
devoid  of  ornament,  but  the  crimson  tapestried  walls  were 
covered  with  works  or  copies  of  the  great  masters  of  Italy. 

Opposite  the  entrance  there  was  a  picture  -of  a  woman 
seated  on  a  throne,  behind  which  stood  a  demon  whispering 
in  her  ear,  and  pointing  to  a  handsome  youth  in  the  circle 
of  the  courtiers.  The  design  and  color  were  in  the  style 
of  Correggio.  Denslow  stood  close  behind  me.  In  ad- 
vance were  Honoria,  Dalton,  and  the  Duke,  whose  conver- 


The  Dens  low  Palace.  353 

sation  was  adressed  alternately  to  her  an^  Dalton.  The 
lights  of  the  gallery  burst  forth  in  their  full  refulgence  as  we 
approached  the  picture. 

The  glorious  harmony  of  its  colors,  —  the  force  of  the 
shadows,  which  seemed  to  be  converging  in  the  rays  of  a 
single  unseen  source  of  light,  —  the  unity  of  sentiment, 
which  drew  all  the  groups  together,  in  the  idea ;  —  I  had 
seen  all  this  before,  but  with  the  eyes  of  supercilious  criti- 
cism. Now  the  picture  smote  us  with  awe. 

a  I  have  the  original  of  this  excellent  work,"  said  the 

Duke,  "  in  my  house  at  A ,  but  your  copy  is  nearly  as 

good." 

The  remark,  intended  for  Honoria,  reached  the  pride  of 
her  companion,  who  blandly  replied,  — 

"Your  Highness's  exquisite  judgment  is  for -once  at 
fault.  The  piece  is  original.  It  was  purchased  from  a  well- 
known  collection  in  Italy,  where  there  are  none  others  of 
the  school." 

Honoria  was  gazing  upon  the  picture,  as  I  was,  in  silent 
astonishment. 

"  If  this,"  said  she,  "is  a  copy,  what  must  have  been  the 
genuine  work  ?  Did  you  never  before  notice  the  likeness 
between  the  queen,  in  that  picture,  and  myself?  "  she  asked, 
addressing  Dalton. 

The  remark  excited  general  attention.  Every  one  mur- 
vmured,  "  The  likeness  is  perfect." 

"  And  the  demon  behind  the  queen,"  said  Denslow,  in- 
sipidly, "  resembles  your  Highness's  valet." 

There  was  another  exclamation.  No  sooner  was  it  ob- 
served, than  the  likeness  to  Reve  de  Noir  seemed  to  be 
even  more  perfect. 

The  Duke  made  a  sign. 

Reve  de  Noir  placed  himself  near  the  canvas.  His  pro- 
file was  the  counterpart  of  that  in  the  painting.  He  seemed 
to  have  stepped  out  of  it. 

"  It  was  I,"  said  the  Duke,  in  a  gentle  voice,  and  with  a 
smile  which  just  disclosed  the  ivory  line  under  the  black 

w 


354  The  Dens  low  Palace. 

moustache,  "wfco  caused  this  picture  to  be  copied  and 
altered.  The  beauty  of  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Denslow,  whom  it 
was  my  highest  pleasure  to  know,  seemed  to  me  to  surpass 
that  of  the  queen  of  my  original.  I  first,  with  great  secrecy, 
unknown  to  your  wife,"  continued  the  Duke,  turning  to 
Denslow,  "procured  a  portrait  from  the  life  by  memory, 
which  was  afterwards  transferred  to  this  canvas.  The  re- 
semblance to  my  attendant  is,  I  confess,  remarkable  and 
inexplicable." 

"  But  will  you  tell  us  by  what  accident  this  copy  happened 
to  be  in  Italy  ?  "  asked  Dalton. 

"  You  will  remember,"  replied  the  Duke,  coldly,  "  that  at 
Paris,  noticing  your  expressions  of  admiration  for  the  pic- 
ture, which  you  had  seen  in  my  English  gallery,  I  gave  you 
a  history  of  its  purchase  at  Bologna  by  myself.  I  sent  my 
artist  to  Bologna,  with  orders  to  place  the  copy  in  the 
gallery  and  to  introduce  the  portrait  of  the  lady ;  it  was  a 
freak  of  fancy;  I  meant  it -for  a  surprise;  as  I  felt  sure, 
that,  if  you  saw  the  picture,  you  would  secure  it." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  replied  Dalton,  "that  the  onus  of 
proof  rests  with  your  Highness." 

The  Duke  made  a  signal  to  Reve  de  Noir,  who  again 
stepped  up  to  the  canvas,  and,  with  a  short  knife  or  stiletto, 
removed  a  small  portion  of  the  outer  layer  of  paint,  dis- 
closing a  very  ancient  ground  of  some  other  and  inferior 
work,  over  which  the  copy  seemed  to  have  been  painted.* 
The  proof  was  unanswerable. 

"Good  copies,"  remarked  the  Duke,  "are  often  better 
than  originals." 

He  offered  his  arm  to  Honoria,  and  they  walked  through 
the  gallery,  —  he  entertaining  her,  and  those  near  him,  with 
comments  upon  other  works.  The  crowd  followed  them, 
as  they  moved  on  or  returned,  as  a  cloud  of  gnats  follow 
up  and  down,  and  to  and  fro,  a  branch  tossing  in  the  wind. 

"  Beaten  at  every  point,"  I  said,  mentally,  looking  on  the 
pale  features  of  the  defeated  Dalton. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  seeing  the  remark  in  my  face;  "but 


The  Deiislow  Palace.  355 

there  is  yet  time.  I  am  satisfied  this  is  the  man  with  whom 
we  travelled ;  none  other  could  have  devised  such  a  plan, 
or  carried  it  out.  He  must  have  fallen  in  love  with  Honoria 
at  that  time  ;  and  simply  to  see  her  is  the  object  of  his  visit 
to  America.  He  is  a  connoisseur  in  pictures  as  in  women  ; 
but  he  must  not  be  allowed  to  ruin  us  by  his  arrogant  as- 
sumptions." . 

"Excepting  his  manner  and  extraordinary  personal  ad- 
vantages, I  find  nothing  in  him  to  awe  or  astonish." 

"  His  wealth  is  incalculable  ;  he  is  used  to  victories  ;  and 
that  manner  which  you  affect  to  slight,  —  that  is  everything. 
'Tis  power,  success,  victory.  This  man  of  millions,  this 
prince,  does  not  talk  ;  he  has. but  little  use  for  words.  It  is 
manner,  and  not  words,  that  achieves  social  and  amatory 
conquests." 

"  Bah !  You  are  like  the  politicians,  who  mistake  acci- 
dents for  principles.  But  even  you  are  talking,  while  this 
pernicious  foreigner  is  acting.  See  !  they  have  left  the 
gallery,  and  the  crowd  of  fools  is  following  them.  You 
cannot  stem  such  a  tide  of  folly." 

"  I  deny  that  they  are  fools.  Why  does  that  sallow 
wretch,  Lethal,  follow  them  ?  or  that  enamelled  person, 
Adonais  ?  They  are  at  a  serpent-charming,  and  Honoria  is 
the  bird-of-paradise.  They  watch  with  delight,  and  sketch 
as  they  observe,  the  struggles  of  the  poor  bird.  The  others 
are  indifferent  or  curious,  envious  or  amused.  It  is  only 
Denslow  who  is  capped  and  antlered,  and  the  shafts  aimed 
at  his  foolish  brow  glance  and  wound  us. 

We  were  left  alone  in  the  gallery.  Dalton  paced  back 
and  forth,  in  his  slow,  erect,  and  graceful  manner ;  there 
was  no  hurry  or  agitation. 

"How  quickly,"  said  he,  as  his  moist  eyes  met  mine, 
"  how  like  a  dream,  this  glorious  vision,  this  beautiful  work, 
will  fade  and  be  forgotten !  Nevertheless,  I  made  it,"  he 
added,  musingly.  "  It  was  I  who  moulded  and  expanded 
the  sluggish  millions." 

"You  will  still  be  what  you  are,  Dalton,  —  an  artist,  more 


356  The  Dens  low  Palace. 

than  a  man  of  society.  You  work  with  a  soft  and  perish- 
able material." 

"A  distinction  without  a  difference.  Every  man  is  a 
politician,  but  only  every  artist  is  a  gentleman." 

"  Densldw,  then,  is  ruined." 

"  Yes  and  no  ;  —  there  is  nothing  in  him  to  ruin.  It  is  I 
who  am  the  sufferer." 

"And  Honoria?" 

"It  was  I  who  formed  her  manners,  and  guided  her  per- 
ceptions of  the  beautiful.  It  was  I  who  married  her  to  a 
mass  of  money,  De  Vere." 

"  Did  you  never  love  Honoria  ? ' 

He  laughed. 

"  Loved  ?  Yes ;  as  Praxiteles  may  have  loved  the  clay 
he  moulded,  —  for  its  smoothness  and  ductility  under  the 
hand." 

"  The  day  has  not  come  for  such  men  as  you,  Dalton.' 

"  Come,  and  gone,  and  coming.  It  has  come  in  dream- 
land. Let  us  follow  your  fools." 

The  larger  gallery  was  crowded.  The  pyramids  of  glow- 
ing fruit  had  disappeared  ;  there  was  a  confused  murmur  of 
pairs  and  parties,  chatting  and  taking  wine.  The  master 
of  the  house,  his  wife,  and  guest  were  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
Lethal  and  Adonais  stood  apart,  conversing.  As  we  ap- 
proached them  unobserved,  Dalton  checked  me.  "  Hear 
what  these  people  are  saying,"  said  he. 

"  My  opinion  is,"  said  Lethal,  holding  out  his  crooked 
forefinger  like  a  claw,  "  that  this  soi-disant  duke  —  what 
the  deuse  is  his  name  ?  " 

"  Rosecouleur,"  interposed  Adonais,  in  a  tone  of  society. 

"  Right,  —  Couleur  de  Rose  is  an  impostor,  —  an  impos- 
tor, a  sharper.  Everything  tends  that  way.  What  an  utter 
sell  it  would  be  !  " 

"  You  were  with  us  at  the  picture  scene  ?  "  murmured 
Adonais. 

"  Yes.  Dalton  looked  wretchedly  cut  up,  when  that  devil 
of  a  valet,  who  must  be  an  accomplice,  scraped  the  new  paint 


The  Dens  low  Palace.  357 

off.  The  picture  must  have  been  got  up  in  New  York  by 
Dalton  and  the  Denslows." 

"  Perhaps  the  Duke,  too,  was  got  up  in  New  York,  on 
the  same  principle,"  suggested  Adonai's.  "  Such  things  are 
possible.  Society  is  intrinsically  rotten,  you  know,  and 
Dalton  —  " 

"  Is  a  fellow  of  considerable  talent,"  sneered  Lethal,  — 
"but  has  enemies,  who  may  have  planned  a  duke." 

Adonai's  coughed  in  his  cravat,  and  hinted,  — "  How 
would  it  do  to  call  him  '  Barnum  Dalton '  ?  " 

Adonai's  appeared  shocked  at  himself,  and  swallowed  a 
minim  of  wine  to  cleanse  his  vocal  apparatus  from  the  stain 
of  so  coarse  an  illustration. 

"  Do  you  hear  those  creatures  ? "  whispered  Dalton. 
"  They  are  arranging  scandalous  paragraphs  for  the  '  Illus- 
tration.' " 

A  moment  after,  he  was  gone.  I  spoke  to  Lethal  and 
Adonai's. 

"  Gentlemen,  you  are  in  error  about  the  picture  and  the 
Duke  ;  they  are  as  they  now  appear :  the  one,  an  excellent 
copy,  purchased  as  an  original,  —  no  uncommon  mistake ; 
the  other,  a  genuine  highness.  How  does  he  strike  you  ?  " 

Lethal  cast  his  eyes  around  to  see  who  listened. 

"  The  person,"  said  he,  "  who  is  announced  here  to-night 
as  an  English  duke  seemed  to  me,  of  all  men  I  could  select, 
least  like  one." 

"  Pray,  what  is  your  ideal  or*  an  English  duke,  Mr. 
Lethal  ? "  asked  Adonai's,  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur, 
sure  of  himself,  but  hating  to  offend. 

"  A  plain,  solid  person,  well  dressed,  but  simple ;  mutton- 
chop  whiskers  ;  and  the  manners  of  a  —  a  —  " 

"  Bear !  "  said  a  soft  female  voice. 

"  Precisely,  —  the  manners  of  a  bear  ;  a  kind  of  gentle- 
manly bear,  perhaps, — but  still,  ursine  and  heavy;  while 

this  person,  who  seems  to  have  walked  out  of or  a 

novel,  affects  me,  by  his  ways  and  appearance,  like  a  —  a 
—  h'm  — " 


358  The  Dens  low  Palace. 

"  Gambler !  "  said  the  same  female  voice,  in  a  conclusive 
tone. 

There  was  a  general  soft  laugh.  Everybody  was  pleased. 
All  admired,  hated,  and  envied  the  Duke.  It  was  settled 
beyond  a  doubt  that  he  was  an  impostor,  —  and  that  the 
Denslows  were  either  grossly  taken  in,  or  were  "  selling  " 
their  friends.  In  either  case,  it  was  shocking  and  de- 
lightful. 

"The  fun  of  the  thing,"  continued  Lethal,  raising  his 
voice  a  little,  "is,  that  the  painter  who  got  up  the  old  pic- 
ture must  have  been  as  much  an  admirer  of  the  Hon.  Mrs. 
Denslow  as  —  his  —  Highness  ;  for,  in  touching  in  the 
queen,  he  has  unconsciously  made  it  a  portrait." 

The  blow  was  final.  I  moved  away,  grieved  and  morti- 
fied to  the  soul,  cursing  the  intrusion  of  the  mysterious 
personage  whose  insolent  superiority  had  overthrown  the 
hopes  of  my  friends. 

At  the  door  of  the  gallery  I  met  G ,  the  painter,  just 

returned  from  London.  I  drew  him  with  me  into  the  inner 
gallery,  to  make  a  thorough  examination  of  the  picture.  I 
called  his  attention  to  the  wonderful  resemblance  of  the 
queen  to  Honoria.  He  did  not  see  it ;  we  looked  together, 
and  I  began  to  think  that  it  might  have  been  a  delusion.  I 
told  the  Duke's  story  of  the  picture  to  G .  He  exam- 
ined the  canvas,  tested  the  layers  of  color,  and  pronounced 
the  work  genuine  and  of  immense  value.  We  looked  again 
and  again  at  the  queer's  head,  viewing  it  in  every  light. 
The  resemblance  to  Honoria  had  disappeared ;  nor  was  the 
demon  any  longer  a  figure  of  the  Duke's  valet. 

"  One  would  think,"  said  G ,  laughing,  "  that  you  had 

been  mesmerized.  If  you  had  been  so  deceived  in  a  picture, 
may  you  not  be  equally  cheated  in  a  man  ?  I  am  loath  to 
offend  ;  but,  indeed,  the  person  whom  you  call  Rosecouleur 
cannot  be  the  Duke  of  that  title,  whom  I  saw  in  England. 
I  had  leave  to  copy  a  picture  in  his  gallery.  He  was  often 
present.  His  manners  were  mild  and  unassuming,  —  not 
at  all  like  those  of  this  man,  to  whom,  I  acknowledge,  the 


The  Dens  low  Palace.  359 

personal  resemblance  is  surprising.  I  am  afraid  our  good 
friends,  the  Denslows,  and  Mr.  Dalton,  —  whom  I  esteem 
for  their  patronage  of  art,  —  have  been  taken  in  by  an  ad- 
venturer." 

"  But  the  valet,  Reve  de  Noir  ?  " 

"  The  Duke  had  a  valet  of  that  name  who  attended  him, 
and  who  may,  for  aught  I  know,  have  resembled  this  one ; 
but  probability  is  against  concurrent  resemblances.  Ttiere 
is  also  an  original  of  the  picture  in  the  Duke's  gallery ;  in 
fact,  the  artist,  as  was  not  unusual  in  those  days,  painted 
two  pictures  of  the  same  subject.  Both,  then,  are  genuine." 

Returning  my  cordial  thanks  to  the  good  painter  for  his 
timely  explanation,  I  hastened  to  find  Dalton.  Drawing 
him  from  the  midst  of  a  group  whom  he  was  entertaining, 

I  communicated  G 's  account  of  the  two  pictures,  and 

his  suspicions  in  regard  to  the  Duke. 

His  perplexity  was  great.  "  Worse  and  worse,  De  Vere  ! 
To  be  ruined  by  a  common  adventurer  is  more  disgraceful 
even  than  the  other  misfortune.  Besides,  our  guests  are 
leaving  us.  At  least  a  hundred  of  them  have  gone  away 
with  the  first  impression,  and  the  whole  city  will  have  it. 
The  journal  reporters  have  been  here.  Denslow's  principal 
creditors  were  among  the  guests  to-night ;  they  went  away 
soon,  just  after  the  affair  with  the  picture ;  to-morrow  will 
be  our  dark  day.  If  it  had  not  been  for  this  demon  of  a 
duke  and  his  familiar,  whoever  they  are,  all  would  have 
gone  well.  Now  we  are  distrusted,  and  they  will  crush  us. 
Let  us  fall  facing  the  enemy.  Within  an  hour  I  will  have 
the  truth  about  the  Duke.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  what  a  price 
Denslow  paid  for  that  picture  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not  wish  to  hear." 

"  You  are  right.     Come  with  me." 

The  novel  disrespect  excited  by  the  scandal  of  Honoria 
and  the  picture  seemed  to  have  inspired  the  two  hundred 
people  who  remained  with  a  cheerful  ease.  Eating,  drink- 
ing excessively  of  Denslow's  costly  wines,  dancing  to  music 
which  grew  livelier  and  more  boisterous  as  the  musicians, 


360  The  Dens  low  Palace. 

imbibed  more  of  the  inspiriting  juice,  and,  catching  scraps 
of  the  scandal,  threw  out  significant  airs,  the  company 
of  young  persons,  deserted  by  their  scandalized  seniors, 
had  converted  the  magnificent  suite  of  drawing-rooms  into 
a  carnival  theatre.  Parties  of  three  and  four  were  junk- 
eting in  corners  ;  laughing  servants  rushed  to  and  fro  as  in 
a  cafe;  the  lounges  were  occupied  by  reclining  beauties  or 
languid  fops  overpowered  with  wine,  about  whom  lovely 
young  women,  flushed  with  champagne  and  mischief,  were 
coquetting  and  frolicking. 

"  I  warrant  you,  these  people  know  it  is  our  last  night," 
said  Dalton  ;  "  and  see  what  a  use  they  make  of  us  !  Den- 
low's  rich  wines  poured  away  like  water  ;  everything  soiled, 
smeared,  and  overturned ;  our  entertainment,  at  first  stately 
and  gracious  as  a  queen's  drawing-room,  ending  with  the 
loss  of  prestige,  in  the  riot  of  a  bal  masque.  So  fades  am- 
bition !  But  to  this  duke." 

Denslow,  who  had  passed  into  the  polite  stage  of  inebria- 
tion, evident  to  close  observers,  had  arranged  a  little  exclu- 
sive circle,  which  included  three  women  of  fashionable 
reputation,  his  wife,  the  Duke,  Jeffrey  Lethal,  and  Adonais. 
R£ve  de  Noir  officiated  as  attendant.  The  faiiteuils  and 
couches  were  disposed  around  a  pearl  table,  on  which  were 
liquors,  coffee,  wines,  and  a  few  delicacies  for  Honoria,  who 
had  not  supped.  They  were  in  the  purple  recess  adjoining 
the  third  drawing-room.  Adonais  talked  with  the  Duke 
about  Italy;  Lethal  criticised;  while  Honoria,  in  the  full 
splendor  of  her  beauty,  outshining  and  overpowering, 
dropped  here  and  there  a  few  musical  words,  like  service- 
notes,  to  harmonize. 

There  is  no  beauty  like  the  newly-enamored.  Dalton 
seemed  to  forget  himself,  as  he  contemplated  her,  for  a 
moment.  Spaces  had  been  left  for  us ;  the  valet  placed 
chairs. 

"Dalton,"  cried  Lethal,  "you  are  in  time  to  decide  a 
question  of  deep  interest ;  —  your  friend,  De  Vere,  will 
assist  you.  His  Highness  has  given  preference  to  the  wo- 


The  Dens  low  Palace.  361 

men  of  America  over  those  of  Italy.  'AdonaYs,  the  exqui- 
site and  mild,  settles  his  neck-tie  against  the  Duke,  and 
objects  in  that  bland  but  firm  manner  which  is  his.  I  am 
the  Duke's  bottle-holder;  Denslow  and  wife  accept  that 
function  for  the  chivalrous  AdonaYs." 

"  I  am  of  the  Duke's  party,"  replied  Dalton,  in  his  most 
agreeable  manner.  "  To  be  in  the  daily  converse  and  view 
of  the  most  beautiful  women  in  America,  as  I  have  been 
for  years,  is  a  privilege  in  the  cultivation  of  a  pure  taste.  I 
saw  nothing  in  Italy,  except  on  canvas,  comparable  with 
what  I  see  at  this  moment.  The  Duke  is  right;  but  in 
commending  his  judgment,  I  attribute  to  him  also  sagacity. 
Beauty  is  like  language ;  its  use  is  to  conceal.  One  may, 
under  rose-colored  commendations,  a  fine  manner,  and  a 
flowing  style,  conceal,  as  Nature  does  with  personal  advan- 
tages in  men,  the  gross  tastes  and  vulgar  cunning  of  a 
charlatan." 

Dalton,  in  saying  this,  with  a  manner  free  from  suspicion 
or  excitement,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  Duke's. 

"  You  seem  to  have  no  faith  in  either  men  or  women," 
responded  the  rich  barytone  voice  of  his  Highness,  the  dark 
upper  lip  disclosing,  as  before,  the  row  of  square,  sharp, 
ivory  teeth. 

"  Little,  very  little,"  responded  Dalton,  with  a  sigh. 
"  Your  Highness  will  understand  me,  —  or  if  not  now, 
presently." 

Lethal  trod  upon  Adonais's  foot ;  I  saw  him  do  it. 
AdonaYs  exchanged  glances  with  a  brilliant  hawk-faced  lady 
who  sat  opposite.  The  lady  smiled  and  touched  her  com- 
panion. Honoria,  who  saw  everything,  opened  her  magnifi- 
cent eyes  to  their  full  extent.  Denslow  was  oblivious. 

"  In  fact,"  continued  Dalton,  perceiving  the  electric  flash 
he  had  excited,  "  scepticism  is  a  disease  of  my  intellect. 
Perhaps  the  most  noticeable  and  palpable  fact  of  the  mo- 
ment is  the  presence  and  identity  of  the  Duke  who  is 
opposite  to  me ;  and  yet,  doubting  as  I  sometimes  do  my 
own  existence,  is  it  not  natural,  that,  philosophically  speak- 
16 


362  The  Dens  low  Palace. 

ing,  the  presence  and  identity  of  your  Highness  are  at  mo- 
ments a  subject  of  philosophical  doubt  ?  " 

"  In  cases  of  this  kind,"  replied  the  Duke,  "we  rest  upon 
circumstantial  evidence." 

So-  saying,  he  drew  from  his  finger  a  ring  and  handed  it 
to  Dalton,  who  went  to  the  light  and  examined  it  closely, 
and  passed  it  to  me.  It  was  a  minute  cameo,  no  larger  than 
a  grain  of  wheat,  in  a  ring  of  plain  gold  ;  a  rare  and  beauti- 
ful work  of  microscopic  art. 

"  I  seem  to  remember  presenting  the  Duke  of  Rosecou- 
leur  with  a  similar  ring,  in  Italy,"  said  Dalton,  resuming 
his  seat ;  "  but  the  coincidence  does  not  resolve  my  philo- 
sophic doubt,  excited  by  the  affair  of  the  picture.  We  all 
supposed  that  we  saw  a  portrait  of  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Denslow 
in  yon  picture  ;  and  we  seemed  to  discover,  under  the  man- 
agement of  your  valet,  that  Denslow's  picture,  a  genuine 
duplicate  of  the  original  by  the  author,  was  a  modern  copy. 
Since  your  Highness  quitted  the  gallery,  those  delusions 
have  ceased.  The  picture  appears  now  to  be  genuine. 
The  likeness  to  Mrs.  Denslow  has  vanished." 

An  exclamation  of  surprise  from  all  present,  except  the 
Duke,  followed  this  announcement. 

"  And  so,"  continued  Dalton,  "  it  may  be  with  this  ring, 
which  now  seems  to  be  the  one  I  gave  the  Duke  at  Rome, 
but  to-morrow  may  be  different." 

As  he  spoke,  Dalton  gave  back  the  ring  to  the  Duke,  who 
received  it  with  his  usual  grace. 

"Who  knows,"  said  Lethal,  with  a  deceptive  innocence 
of  manner,  "  whether  aristocracy  itself  be  not  founded  in 
mesmerical  deceptions  ?  " 

"  I  think,  Lethal,"  observed  Adonais,  "  you  push  the 
matter.  It  would  be  impossible,  for  instance,  even  for 
his  Highness,  to  make  Honoria  Denslow  appear  ugly." 

We  all  looked  at  Honoria,  to  whom  the  Duke  leaned  over 
and  said,  — 

"  Would  you  be  willing  for  a  moment  to  lose  that  exqui- 
site beauty  ?  " 


The  Denslow  Palace.  363 

"  For  my  sake,  Honoria,"  said  Dalton  "  refuse  him.' 

The  request,  so  simply  made,  was  rewarded  by  a  ravish- 
ing smile. 

"  Edward,  do  you  know  that  you  have  not  spoken  a  kind 
word  to  me  to-night,  until  now  ?  " 

Their  eyes  met,  and  I  saw  that  Dalton  trembled  with  a 
deep  emotion.  "  I  will  save  you  yet,"  he  murmured. 

A  tall,  black  hound,  of  the  slender  breed,  rose  up  near 
Honoria,  and  placing  his  fore-paws  upon  the  edge  of  the 
pearl  table,  turned  and  licked  her  face  and  eyes. 

It  was  the  vision  of  a  moment.  The  dog  sprang  up- 
on the  sofa  by  the  Duke's  side,  growling  and  snap- 
ping. 

"  Reve  de  Noir,"  cried  Lethal  and  Adonai's,  "  drive  the 
dog  away  !  " 

The  valet  had  disappeared. 

"I  have  no  fear  of  him,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Duke,  pat- 
ting the  head  of  the  hound  ;  "  he  is  a  faithful  servant,  and 
has  a  faculty  of  reading  thoughts.  Go  bring  my  servant, 
Demon,"  said  the  Duke. 

The  hound  sprang  away  with  a  great  bound,  and  in  an 
instant  Reve  de  Noir  was  standing  behind  us.  The  dog  did 
not  appear  again. 

Honoria  looked  bewildered.  "Of  what  dog  were  you 
speaking,  Edward  ?  " 

"  The  hound  that  licked  your  face.' 

"  You  are  joking.     I  saw  no  hound." 

"  See,  gentlemen,"  exclaimed  Lethal,  "  his  Highness 
shows  us  tricks.  He  is  a  wizard." 

The  three  women  gave  little  shrieks,  —  half  pleasure, 
half  terror. 

Denslow,  who  had  fallen  back  in  his  chair  asleep,  awoke 
and  rubbed  his  eyes. 

"What  is  all  this,  Honoria ? " 

"  That  his  Highness  is  a  wizard,"  she  said,  with  a  forced 
laugh,  glancing  at  Dalton. 

"  Will  his  Highnes"s  do  us  the  honor  to  lay  aside  the  mask, 


364  The  Dens  low  Palace. 

and  appear  in  his  true  colors  ? "  said  Dalton,  returning 
Honoria's  glance  with  an  encouraging  look. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  Duke,  haughtily,  "  I  am  your  guest, 
and  by  hospitality  protected  from  insult." 

"  Insult,  most  noble  Duke  ! "  exclaimed  Lethal,  with  a 
sneer,  — "  impossible,  under  the  roof  of  our  friend,  the 
Honorable  Walter  Denslow,  in  the  small  hours  of  the  night, 
and  in  the  presence  of  the  finest  women  in  the  world. 
Dalton,  pray,  reassure  his  Highness  !  " 

"  Edward  !  Edward  !  "  murmured  Honoria,  "  have  a  care, 
• —  even  if  it  be  as  you  think." 

Dalton  remained  bland  and  collected. 

"  Pardon,  my  Lord,  the  effect  of  a  little  wine,  and  of  those 
wonderful  fantasies  you  have  shown  us.  Your  dog,  youi 
servant,  and  yourself  interest  us  equally ;  the  picture,  the 
ring,  —  all  are  wonderful.  In  supposing  that  you  had  as- 
sumed a  mask,  and  one  so  noble,  I  was  led  into  an  error  by 
these  miracles,  expecting  no  less  than  a  translation  of  your- 
self into  the  person  of  some  famous  wonder-worker.  It  is, 
you  know,  a  day  of  miracles,  and  even  kings  have  their  sal- 
aried seers,  and  take  counsel  of  the  spiritual  world.  More  ! 
—  let  us  have  more  !  " 

The  circle  were  amazed  ;  the  spirit  of  superstitious  curi- 
osity seized  upon  them. 

"Reve  de  Noir,"  said  the  Duke,  "a  carafe,  and  less 
light." 

The  candelabra  became  dim.  The  Duke  took  the  carafe 
of  water  from  the  valet,  and,  standing  up,  poured  it  upon  the 
air ;  it  broke  into  flames,  which  mounted  and  floated  away, 
singly  or  in  little  crowds.  Still  the  Duke  poured,  and  dash- 
ing up  the  water  with  his  hand,  by  and  by  the  ceiling  was 
illuminated  with  a  thousand  miniature  tongues  of  violet-col- 
ored fire.  We  clapped  our  hands,  and  applauded,  —  "  Beau- 
tiful!  marvellous!  wonderful,  Duke!  —  your  Highness  is 
the  only  magician,"  —  when,  on  a  sudden,  the  flames  disap- 
peared and  the  lights  rose  again. 

"  The  world  is  weary  of  scepticism,"  remarked  Lethal ; 


The  Denslow  Palace.  365 

"there  is  no  chemistry  for  that.  It  is  the  true  magic,  doubt- 
less,—  recovered  from  antiquity  by  his  Highness.  Are  the 
wonders  exhausted  ?  " 

The  Duke  smiled  again.  He  stretched  out  his  hand 
toward  Honoria,  and  she  slept.  It  was  the.  work  of  an  in- 
stant. 

"  I  have  seen  that  before,"  said  Dalton. 

"  Not  as  we  see  it,"  responded  his  Highness.  "  Reve  de 
Noir,  less  light !  " 

The  room  was  dark  in  a  moment.  Over  the  head  of  Ho- 
noria appeared  a  cloud,  at  first  black,  and  soon  in  this  a 
nucleus  of  light,  which  expanded  and  shaped  itself  into  an 
image  and  took  the  form  of  the  sleeper,  nude  and  spiritual, 
a  belt  of  rosy  mist  enveloping  and  concealing  all  but  'a  head 
and  bust  of  ravishing  beauty.  The  vision  gazed  with  lan- 
guid and  beseeching  eyes  upon  Dalton,  and  a  sigh  seemed 
to  heave  the  bosom.  In  scarce  a  breathing-time,  it  was 
gone.  Honoria  waked,  unconscious  of  what  had  passed. 

Deep  terror  and  amazement  fell  upon  us  all. 

"I  have  seen  enough,"  said  Dalton,  rising  slowly,  and 
drawing  a  small  riding- whip,  "  to  know  now  that  this  person 
is  no  duke,  but  either  a  charlatan  or  a  devil.  In  either  case, 
since  he  has  intruded  here,  to  desecrate  and  degrade,  I  find 
it  proper  to  apply  a  magic  more  material." 

At  the  word,  all  rose  exclaiming,  — "  For  God's  sake,  Dal- 
ton ! "  He  pressed  forward  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
Duke.  A  cry  burst  from  Reve  de  Noir  which  rent  our  very 
souls ;  and  a  flash  followed,  unspeakably  bright,  which  re- 
vealed the  demoniacal  features  of  the  Duke,  who  sat  motion- 
less, regarding  Dalton's  uplifted  arm.  A  darkness  followed 
profound  and  palpable.  I  listened  in  terror.  There  was  no 
sound.  Were  we  transformed  ?  Silence,  darkness,  still.  I 
closed  my  eyes,  and  opened  them  again.  A  pale,  cold  light 
became  slowly  perceptible,  stealing  through  a  crevice,  and 
revealing  the  walls  and  ceiling  of  my  narrow  room.  The 
dream  still  oppressed  me.  I  went  to  the  window,  and  let 
in  reality  with  the  morning  "light.  Yet,  for  days  after,  the 


366 


The  Denslow  Palace. 


images  of  the  real  Honoria  and  Dalton,  my  friends,  re- 
mained separated  from  the  creatures  of  the  vision  ;  and  the 
Denslow  palace  of  dream-land,  the  pictures,  the  revelry,  and 
the  magic  of  the  Demon  Duke,  haunted  my  memory,  and 
kept  with  them  all  their  visionary  splendors  and  regrets. 


FRIEND    ELI'S    DAUGHTER. 


HE  mild  May  afternoon  was  drawing  to  a  close,  as 
Friend  Eli  Mitchenor  reached  the  top  of  the  long 
hill,  and  halted  a  few  minutes,  to  allow  his  horse 
time  to  recover  breath.  He  also  heaved  a  sigh  of  satisfac- 
tion, as  he  saw  again  the  green,  undulating  valley  of  the 
Neshaminy,  with  its  dazzling  squares  of  young  wheat,  its 
brown  patches  of  corn-land,  its  snowy  masses  of  blooming 
orchard,  and  the  huge,  fountain-like  jets  of  weeping-willow, 
half  concealing  the  gray  stone  fronts  of  the  farm-houses. 
He  had  been  absent  from  home  only  six  days,  but  the  time 
seemed  almost  as  long  to  him  as  a  three-years'  cruise  to  a 
New-Bedford  whaleman.  The  peaceful  seclusion  and  pas- 
toral beauty  of  the  scene  did  not  consciously  appeal  to  his 
senses  ;  but  'he  quietly  noted  how  much  the  wheat  had 
grown  during  his  absence,  that  the  oats  were  up  and  look- 
ing well,  that  Friend  Comly's  meadow  had  been  ploughed, 
and  Friend  Martin  had  built  his  half  of  the  line-fence  along 
the  top  of  the  hill-field.  If  any  smothered  delight  in  the 
loveliness  of  the  spring-time  found  a  hiding-place  anywhere 
in  the  well-ordered  chambers  of  his  heart,  it  never  relaxed 
or  softened  the  straight,  inflexible  lines  of  his  face.  As 
easily  could  his  collarless  drab  coat  and  waistcoat  have 
flushed  with  a  sudden  gleam  of  purple  or  crimson. 

Eli  Mitchenor  was  at  peace  with  himself  and  the  world, 
—  that  is,  so  much  of  the  world  as  he  acknowledged.     Be- 


368  Friend  Eli's  Daughter. 

yond  the  community  of  his  own  sect,  and  a  few  personal 
friends  who  were  privileged  to  live  on  its  borders,  he  neither 
knew,  nor  cared  to  know,  much  more  of  the  human  race 
than  if  it  belonged  to  a  planet  farther  from  the  sun.  In  the 
discipline  of  the  Friends  'he  was  perfect ;  he  was  privileged 
to  sit  on  the  high  seats,  with  the  elders  of  the  Society ;  and 
the  travelling  brethren  from  other  States,  who  visited  Bucks 
County,  invariably  blessed  his  house  with  a  family-meeting. 
His  farm  was  one  of  the  best  on  the  banks  of  the  Nesha- 
miny,  and  he  also  enjoyed  the  annual  interest  of  a  few 
thousand  dollars,  carefully  secured  by  mortgages  on  real 
estate.  His  wife,  Abigail,  kept  even  pace  with  him  in  the 
consideration  she  enjoyed  within  the  limits  of  the  sect; 
and  his  two  children,  Moses  and  Asenath,  vindicated  the 
paternal  training  by  the  strictest  sobriety  of  dress  and 
conduct.  Moses  wore  the  plain  coat,  even  when  his  ways 
led  him  among  "  the  world's  people  " ;  and  Asenath  had 
never  been  known  to  wear,  or  to  express  a  desire  for,  a 
ribbon  of  a  brighter  tint  than  brown  or  fawn-color.  Friend 
Mitchenor  had  thus  gradually  ripened  to  his  sixtieth  year 
in  an  atmosphere  of  life  utterly  placid  and  serene,  and 
looked  forward  with  confidence  to  the  final  change,  as  a 
translation  into  a  deeper  calm,  a  serener  quiet,  a  prosperous 
eternity  of  mild  voices,  subdued  colors,  and  suppressed 
emotions. 

He  was  returning  home,  in  his  own  old-fashioned  "chair," 
with  its  heavy  square  canopy  and  huge  curved  springs, 
from  the  Yearly  Meeting  of  the  Hicksite  Friends,  in  Phila- 
delphia. The  large  bay  farm-horse,  slow  and  grave  in  his 
demeanor,  wore  his  plain  harness  with  an  a*r  which  made 
him  seem,  among  his  fellow-horses,  the  counterpart  of  his 
master  among  men.  He  would  no  more  have  thought  of 
kicking  than  the  latter  would  of  swearing  a  huge  oath. 
Even  now,  when  the  top  of  the  hill  was  gained,  and  .he 
knew  that  he  was  within  a  mile  of  the  stable  which  had 
been  his*  home  since  colthood,  he  showed  no  undue  haste 
or  impatience,  but  waited  quietly,  until  Friend  Mitchenor, 


Friend  Elis  Daughter.  369 

by  a  well-known  jerk  of  the  lines,  gave  him  the  signal  to  go 
on.  Obedient  to  the  motion,  he  thereupon  set  forward 
once  more,  jogging  soberly  down  the  eastern  slope  of  the 
hill,  —  across  the  covered  bridge,  where,  in  spite  of  the 
tempting  level  of  the  hollow-sounding  floor,  he  was  as 
careful  to  abstain  from  trotting  as  if  he  had  read  the  warn- 
ing notice,  —  along  the  wooded  edge  of  the  green  meadow, 
where  several  cows  of  his  acquaintance  were  grazing, — 
and  finally,  wheeling  around  at  the  proper  angle,  halted 
squarely  in  front  of  the  gate  which  gave  entrance  to  the 
private  lane. 

The  old  stone  house  in  front,  the  spring-house  in  a  green 
little  hollow  just  below  it,  the  walled  garden,  with  its  clumps 
of  box  and  lilac,  and  the  vast  barn  oh  the  left,  all  joined  in 
expressing  a  silent  welcome  to  their  owner,  as  he  drove  up 
the  lane.  Moses,  a  man  of  twenty-five,  left  his  work  in  the 
garden,  and  walked  forward  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 

"Well, 'father,  how  does  thee  do?  "  was  his  quiet  greet- 
ing, as  they  shook  hands. 

"  How 's  mother,  by  this  time  ?  "  asked  Eli. 

"O,  thee  needn't  have  been  concerned,"  said  the  son. 
"  There  she  is.  Go  in  :  I  '11  'tend  to  the  horse." 

Abigail  and  her  daughter  appeared  on  the  piazza.  The 
mother  was  a  woman  of.  fifty,  thin  and  delicate  in  frame, 
but  with  a  smooth,  placid  beauty  of  countenance  which  had 
survived  her  youth.  She  was  dressed  in  a  simple  dove- 
colored  gown,  with  book-muslin  cap  and  handkerchief,  so 
scrupulously  arranged  that  one  might  have  associated  with 
her  for  six  months  without  ever  discovering  a  spot  on  the 
former  or  an  uneven  fold  in  the  latter.  Asenath,  who  fol- 
lowed, was  almost  as  plainly  attired,  her  dress  being  a 
dark-blue  calico,  while  a  white  pasteboard  sun-bonnet,  with 
broad  cape,  covered  her  head. 

"  Well,  Abigail,  how  art  thou  ?  "  said  Eli,  quietly  giving 
his  hand  to  his  wife. 

"  I  'm  glad  to  see  thee  back,"  was  her  simple  welcome. 

No  doubt  they  had  kissed  each  other  as  lovers,  but 
16*  x 


370  Friend  Eli's  Daughter. 

Asenath  had  witnessed  this  manifestation  of  affection  but 
once  in  her  life,  —  after  the  burial  of  a'younger  sister.  The 
fact  impressed  her  with  a  peculiar  sense  of  sanctity  and 
solemnity:  it  was  a  caress  wrung  forth  by  a  season  of 
tribulation,  and  therefore  was  too  earnest  to  be  profaned  to 
the  uses  of  joy.  So,  far,  therefore,  from  expecting  a  pater- 
nal embrace,  she  would  have  felt,  had  it  been  given,,  like 
the  doomed  daughter  of  the  Gileadite,  consecrated  to  sacri- 
fice. 

Both  she  and  her  mother  were  anxious  to  hear  the  pro- 
ceedings of  the  Meeting,  and  to  receive  personal  news  of 
the  many  friends  whom  Eli  had  seen;  but  they  asked 
few  questions  until  the  supper-table  was  ready  and  Moses 
had  come  in  from  the  barn.  The  old  man  enjoyed  talking, 
but  it  must  be  in  his  own  way  and  at  his  own  good  time. 
They  must  wait  until  the  communicative  spirit  should  move 
him.  With  the  first  cup  of  coffee  the  inspiration  came. 
Hovering,  at  first,  over  indifferent  details,  he  gradually  ap- 
proached those  of  more  importance,  —  told  of  the  addresses 
which  had  been  made,  the  points  of  discipline  discussed, 
the  testimony  borne,  and  the  appearance  and  genealogy  of 
any  new  Friends  who  had  taken  a  prominent  part  therein. 
Finally,  at  the  close  of  his  relation,  he  said,  — 

"  Abigail,  there  is  one  thing  I  must  talk  to  thee  about. 
Friend  Speakman's  partner  —  perhaps  thee's  heard  of  him, 
Richard  Hilton  —  has  a  son  who  is  weakly.  He's  two  or 
three  years  younger  than  Moses.  His  mother  was  consump- 
tive, and  they  're  afraid  he  takes  after  her.  His  father  wants 
to  send  him  into  the  country  for  the  summer,  —  to  some  place 
where  he  'II  have  good  air,  and  quiet,  and  moderate  exercise, 
and  Friend  Speakman  spoke  of  us.  I  thought  I  'd  mention 
it  to  thee,  and  if  thee  thinks  well  of  -it,  we  can  send  word 
down  next  week,  when  Josiah  Comly  goes." 

"What  does  thee  think  ?  "  asked  his  wife,  after  a  pause. 

"  He  's  a  very  quiet,  steady  young  man,  Friend  Speakman 
says,  and  would  be  very  little  trouble  to  thee.  I  thought 
perhaps  his  board  would  buy  the  new  yoke  of  oxen  we  must 


Friend  Eli's  Daughter.  371 

have  in  the  fall,  and  the  price  of  the  fat  ones  might  go  to 
help  set  up  Moses.  But  it 's  for  thee  to  decide." 

"  I  suppose  we  could  take  him,"  said  Abigail,  seeing  that 
the  decision  was  virtually  made  already ;  "  there 's  the  cor- 
ner-room, which  we  don't  often  use.  Only,  if  he  should  get 
worse  on  our  hands  " 

"  Friend  Speakman  says  there  's  no  danger.  He  's  only 
weak-breasted,  as  yet,  and  clerking  is  n't  good  for  him.  I 
saw  the  young  man  at  the  store.  If  his  looks  don't  belie 
him,  he  's  well-behaved  and  orderly." 

So  it  was  settled  that  Richard  Hilton  the  younger  was 
to  be  an  inmate  of  Friend  Mitchenor's  house  during  the 
summer. 

II. 

AT  the  end  of  ten  days  he  came. 
In  the  under-sized,  earnest,  dark-haired,  and  dark-eyed 
young  man  of  three-and-twenty  Abigail  Mitchenor  at  once 
felt  a  motherly  interest.  Having  received  him  as  a  tempo- 
rary member  of  the  family,  she  considered  him  entitled  to  the 
same  watchful  care  as  if  he  were  in  reality  an  invalid  son. 
The  ice  over  an  hereditary  Quaker  nature  is  but  a  thin  crust, 
if  one  knows  how  to  break  it ;  and'in  Richard  Hilton's  case, 
it  was  already  broken  before  his  arrival.  His  only  embar- 
rassment, in  fact,  arose  from  the  difficulty  which  he  natur- 
ally experienced  in  adapting  himself  to  the  speech  and 
address  of  the  Mitchenor  family.  The  greetings  of  old  Eli, 
grave,  yet  kindly,  of  Abigail,  quaintly  familiar  and  tender, 
of  Moses,  cordial  and  slightly  condescending,  and  finally  of 
Asenath,  simple  and  natural  to  a  degree  which  impressed 
him  like  a  new  revelation  in  woman,  at  once  indicated  to 
him  his-  position  among  them.  His  city  manners,  he  felt, 
instinctively,  must  be  unlearned,  or  at  least  laid  aside  for  a 
time.  Yet  it  was  not  easy  for  him  to  assume,  at  such  short 
notice,  those  of  his  hosts.  Happening  to  address  Asenath 
as  "  Miss  Mitchenor,"  Eli  turned  to  him  with  a  rebuking 
face. 


3/2  Friend  Eli's  Daughter. 

"We  do  not  use  compliments,  Richard,"  said  he;  "my 
daughter's  name  is  Asenath." 

"  I  beg  pardon.  I  will  try  to  accustom  myself  to  your 
ways,  since  you  have  been  so  kind  as  to  take  me  for  a 
while,"  apologized  Richard  Hilton. 

"  Thee  's  under  no  obligation  to  us,"  said  Friend  Mitche- 
nor,  in  his  strict  sense  of  justice  ;  "  thee  pays  for  what  thee 
gets." 

The  finer  feminine  instinct  of  Abigail  led  her  to  inter- 
pose. 

"  We  '11  not  expect  too  much  of  thee,  at  first,  Richard," 
she  remarked,  with  a  kind  expression  of  face,  which  had 
the  effect  of  a  smile  ;  "  but  our  ways  are  plain  and  easily 
learned.  Thee  knows,  perhaps,  that  we  're  no  respecters 
of  persons." 

It  was  some  days,  however,  before  the  young  man  could 
overcome  his  natural  hesitation  at  the  familiarity  implied 
by  these  new  forms  of  speech.  "  Friend  Mitchenor  "  and 
"  Moses  "  were  not  difficult  to  learn,  but  it  seemed  a  want 
of  respect  to  address  as  "  Abigail "  a  woman  of  such  sweet 
and  serene  dignity  as  the  mother,  and  he  was  fain  to  avoid 
either  extreme  by  calling  her,  with  her  cheerful  permission, 
"  Aunt  Mitchenor."  On  the  other  hand,  his  own  modest 
and  unobtrusive  nature  soon  won  the  confidence  and  cordial 
regard  of  the  family.  He  occasionally  busied  himself  in 
the  garden,  by  way  of  exercise,  or  accompanied  Moses  to 
the  cornfield  or  the  woodland  on  the  hill,  but  was  careful 
never  to  interfere  at  inopportune  times,  and  willing  to  learn 
silently,  by  the  simple  process  of  looking  on. 

One  afternoon  as  he  was  idly  sitting  on  the  stone  wall 
which  separated  the  garden  from  the  lane,  Asenath,  attired  in 
a  new  gown  of  chocolate-colored  calico,  with  a  double-han- 
dled willow  work-basket  on  her  arm,  issued  from  the  house. 
As  she  approached  him,  she  paused  and  said,  — 

"  The  time  seems  to  hang  heavy  on  thy  hands,  Richard. 
If  thee  's  strong  enough  to  walk  to  the  village  and  back, 
it  might  do  thee  more  good  than  sitting  still." 


Friend  EIVs  Daughter.  373 

Richard  Hilton  at  once  jumped  down  from  the  wall. 

"Certainly  I  am  able  to  go,"  said  he,  "if  you  will  allow 
it." 

"  Have  n't  I  asked  thee  ?  "  was  her  quiet  reply. 

"  Let  me  carry  your  basket,"  he  said,  suddenly,  after  they 
had  walked,  side  by  side,  some  distance  down  the  lane. 

"  Indeed,  I  shall  not  let  thee  do  that.  I  'm  only  going  for 
the  mail,  and  some  little  things  at  the'  store,  that  make  no 
weight  at  all.  Thee  must  n't  think  I  'm  like  the  young  wo- 
men in  the  city,  who,  —  I  'm  told,  —  if  they  buy  a  spool  of 
cotton,  must  have  it  sent  home  to  them.  Besides,  thee 
must  n't  over-exert  thy  strength." 

Richard  Hilton  laughed  merrily  at  the  gravity  with  which 
she  uttered  the  last  sentence. 

"  Why,  Miss  —  Asenath,  I  mean  —  what  am  I  good  for, 
if  I  have  not  strength  enough  to  carry  a  basket  ?  " 

"  Thee  's  a  man,  I  know,  and  I  think  a  man  would  almost 
as  lief  be  thought  wicked  as  weak.  Thee  can't  help  being 
weakly-inclined,  and  it's  only  right  that  thee  should  be 
careful  of  thyself.  There 's  surely  nothing  in  that  that  thee 
need  be  ashamed  of." 

While  thus  speaking,  Asenath  moderated  her  walk,  in 
order,  unconsciously  to  her  companion,  to  restrain  his  steps. 

"  O,  there  are  the  dog's-tooth  violets  in  blossom  ! "  she 
exclaimed,  pointing  to  .  a  shady  spot  beside  the  brook ; 
"does  thee  know  them  ?  " 

Richard  immediately  gathered  and  brought  to  her  a  hand- 
ful of  the  nodding  yellow  bells,  trembling  above  their  large, 
cool,  spotted  leaves. 

"  How  beautiful  they  are  !  "  said  he ;  "  but  I  should  never 
have  taken  them  for  violets." 

"They  are  misnamed,"  she  answered.  "The  flower  is 
an  Erythronium  j  but  I  am  accustomed  to  the  common 
name,  and  like  it.  Did  thee  ever  study  botany  ? " 

Not  at  all.  I  can  tell  a  geranium,  when  I  see  it,  and  I 
know  a  heliotrope  by  the  smell.  I  could  never  mistake  a 
red  cabbage  for  a  rose,  and  I  can  recognize  a  hollyhock 


374  Friend  Eli's  Daughter. 

or  a  sunflower  at  a  considerable  distance.  The  wild  flowers 
are  all  strangers  to  me ;  I  wish  I  knew  something  about 
them." 

"  If  thee  's  fond  of  flowers,  it  would  be  very  easy  to  learn. 
I  think  a  study  of  this  kind  would  pleasantly  occupy  thy 
mind.  Why  could  n't  thee  try  ?  I  would  be  very  willing  to 
teach  thee  what  little  I  know.  It 's  not  much,  indeed,  but 
all  thee  wants  is  a  start.  See,  I  will  show  thee  how  simple 
the  principles  are." 

Taking  one  of  the  flowers  from  the  bunch,  Asenath,  as 
they  slowly  walked  forward,  proceeded  to  dissect  it,  explained 
the  mysteries  of  stamens  and  pistils,  pollen,  petals,  and 
calyx,  and,  by  the  time  they  had  reached  the  village,  had 
succeeded  in  giving  him  a  general  idea  of  the  Linnaean  sys- 
tem of  classification.  His  mind  took  hold  of  the  subject 
with  a  prompt  and  profound  interest.  It  was  a  new  and 
wonderful  world  which  suddenly  opened  before  him.  How 
surprised  he  was  to  learn  that  there  were  signs  by  which  a 
poisonous  herb  could  be  detected  from  a  wholesome  one, 
that  cedars  and  pine-trees  blossomed,  that  the  gray  lichens 
on  the  rocks  belonged  to  the  vegetable  kingdom  !  His  re- 
spect for  Asenath' s  knowledge  thrust  quite  out  of  sight  the 
restraint  which  her  youth  and  sex  had  imposed  upon  him. 
She  was  teacher,  equal,  friend ;  and  the  simple,  candid 
manner  which  was  the  natural  expression  of  her  dignity  and 
purity  thoroughly  harmonized  with  this  relation. 

Although,  in  reality,  two  or  three  years  younger  than  he, 
Asenath  had  a  gravity  of  demeanor,  a  calm  self-possession, 
a  deliberate  balance  of  mind,  and  a  repose  of  the  emotional 
nature,  which  he  had  never  before  observed,  except  in  much 
older  women.  She  .had  had,  as  he  could  well  imagine,  no 
romping  girlhood,  no  season  of  careless,  light-hearted  dalli- 
ance with  opening  life,  no  violent  alternation  even  of  the 
usual  griefs  and  joys  of  youth.  The  social  calm  in  which 
she  had  expanded  had  developed  her  nature  as  gently  and 
securely  as  a  sea-flower  is  unfolded  below  the  reach  of  tides 
and  storms. 


Friend  Eli's  Daughter.  375 

She  would  have  been  very  much  surprised,  if  any  one  had 
called  her  handsome  ;  yet  her  face  had  a  mild,  unobtrusive 
beauty,  which  seemed  to  grow  and  deepen  from  day  to  day. 
Of  a  longer  oval  than  the  Greek  standard,  it  was  yet  as 
harmonious  in  outline  ;  the  nose  was  fine  and  straight,  the 
dark-blue  eyes  steady  and  untroubled,  and  the  lips  calmly, 
but  not  too  firmly  closed.  Her  brown  hair,  parted  over  a 
high  white  forehead,  was  smoothly  laid  across  the  temples, 
drawn  behind  the  ears,  and  twisted  into  a  simple  knot. 
The  white  cape  and  sun-bonnet  gave  her  face  a  nun-like 
character,  which  set  her  apart,  in  the  thoughts  of  "the 
world's  people  "  whom  she  met,  as  one  sanctified  for  some 
holy  work.  She  might  have  gone  around  the  world,  repel- 
ling every  rude  word,  every  bold  glance,  by  the  protecting 
atmosphere  of  purity  and  truth  which  inclosed  her. 
•  The  days  went  by,  each  bringing  some  new  blossom  to 
adorn  and  illustrate  the  joint  studies  of  the  young  man  and 
maiden.  For  Richard  Hilton  had  soon  mastered  the  ele- 
ments of  botany,  as  taught  by  Priscilla  Wakefield,  —  the 
only  source  of  Asenath's  knowledge,  —  and  entered,  with 
her,  upon  the  text-book  of  Gray,  a  copy  of  which  he  pro- 
cured from  Philadelphia.  Yet,  though  he  had  overtaken 
her  in  his  knowledge  of  the  technicalities  of  the  science,  her 
practical  acquaintance  with  plants  and  their  habits  left  her 
still  his  superior.  Day  by  day,  exploring  the  meadows,  the 
woods,  and  the  clearings,  he  brought  home  his  discoveries 
to  enjoy  her  aid  in  classifying  and  assigning  them  to  their 
true  places.  Asenath  had  generally  an  hour  or  two  of  leis- 
ure from  domestic  duties  in  the  afternoons,  or  after  the 
early  supper  of  summer  was  over;  and  sometimes,  on 
"  Seventh-days,"  she  would  be  his  guide  to  some  locality 
where  the  rarer  plants  were  known  to  exist.  The  parents 
saw  this  community  of  interest  and  exploration  without  a 
thought  of  misgiving.  They  trusted  their  daughter  as 
themselves  ;  or,  if  any  possible  fear  had  flitted  across 
their  hearts,  it  was  allayed  by  the  absorbing  delight  with 
which  Richard  Hilton  pursued  his  study.  An  earnest  dis- 


376  Friend  Eli's  Daughter. 

cussion  as  to  whether  a  certain  leaf  was  ovate  or  lanceolate, 
whether  a  certain  plant  belonged  to  the  species  scandens  or 
canadensis,  was,  in  their  eyes,  convincing  proof  that  the 
young  brains  were  touched,  and  therefore  not  the  young 
hearts. 

But  love,  symbolized  by  a  rose-bud,  is  emphatically  a 
botanical  emotion.  A  sweet,  tender  perception  of  beauty, 
such  as  this  study  requires,  or  develops,  is  at  once  the  most 
subtile  and  certain  chain  of  communication  between  im- 
pressible natures.  Richard  Hilton,  feeling  that  his  years 
were  numbered,  had  given  up,  in  despair,  his  boyish  dreams, 
even  before  he  understood  them :  his  fate  seemed  to  pre- 
clude the  possibility  of  love.  But,  as  he  gained  a  little 
strength  from  the  genial  season,  the  pure  country  air,  and  the 
release  from  gloomy  thoughts  which  his  rambles  afforded,  the 
end  was  farther  removed,  and  a  future  —  though  brief,  per1 
haps,  still  a  future  —  began  to  glimmer  before  him.  If  this 
could  be  his  life,  —  an  endless  summer,  with  a  search  for 
new  plants  every  morning,  and  their  classification  every 
evening,  with  Asenath's  help,  on  the  shady  portico  of 
Friend  Mitchenor's  house,  —  he  could  forget  his  doom,  and 
enjoy  the  blessing  of  life  unthinkingly. 

The  azaleas  succeeded  to  the  anemones,  the  orchis  and 
trillium  followed,  then  the  yellow  gerardias  and  the  feathery 
purple  pogonias,  and  finally  the  growing  gleam  of  the  gold- 
en-rods along  the  wood-side  and  the  red  umbels  of  the  tall 
eupatoriums  in  the  meadow  announced  the  close  of  summer. 
One  evening,  as  Richard,  in  displaying  his  collection, 
brought  to  view  the  blood-red  leaf  of  a  gum-tree,  Asenath 
exclaimed,  — 

"  Ah,  there  is  the  sign  !     It  is  early,  this  year." 

"What  sign?"  he  asked. 

"  That  the  summer  is  over.  We  shall  soon  have  frosty 
nights,  and  then  nothing  will  be  left  for  us  except  the  asters 
and  gentians  and  golden-rods." 

Was  the  time  indeed  so  near  ?  A  few  more  weeks,  and 
this  Arcadian  life  would  close.  He  must  go  back  to  the 


Friend  Eli's  Daughter.  377 

city,  to  its  rectilinear  streets,  its  close  brick  walls,  its  arti- 
ficial, constrained  existence.  How  could  he  give  up  the 
peace,  the  contentment,  the  hope  he  had  enjoyed  through 
the  summer  ?  The  question  suddenly  took  a  more  definite 
form  in  his  mind :  How  could  he  give  up  Asenath  ?  Yes, 

—  the  quiet,  unsuspecting  girl,  sitting  beside  him,  with  her 
lap  full  of  the  September  blooms  he   had  gathered,  was 
thenceforth  a  part  of  his  inmost  life.     Pure  and  beautiful  as 
she  was,  almost  sacred  in  his  regard,  his  heart  dared  to  say, 

—  "I  need  her  and  claim  her  !  " 

"Thee  looks  pale  to-night,  Richard,"  said  Abigail,  as 
they  took  their  seats  at  the  supper-table.  "I  hope  thee 
has  not  taken  cold." 


III. 


"  T  "T  7 ILL  thee  go  along,  Richard  ?  I  know  where  the 
\  V  rudbeckias  grow,"  said  Asenath,  on  the  following 
"  Seventh-day  "  afternoon. 

They  crossed  the  meadows,  and  followed  the  course  of 
the  stream,  under  its  canopy  of  magnificent  ash  and  plane- 
trees,  into  a  brake  between  the  hills.  It  was  an  almost  im- 
penetrable thicket,  spangled  with  tall  autumnal  flowers. 
The  eupatoriums,  with  their  purple  crowns,  stood  like 
young  trees,  with  an  undergrowth  of  aster  and  blue  spikes 
of  lobelia,  tangled  in  a  golden  mesh  of  dodder.  A  strong, 
mature  odor,  mixed  alike  of  leaves  and  flowers,  and  very 
different  from  the  faint,  elusive  sweetness  of  spring,  filled 
the  air.  The  creek,  with  a  few  faded  leaves  dropped  upon 
its  bosom,  and  films  of  gossamer  streaming  from  its  bushy 
fringe,  gurgled  over  the  pebbles  in  its  bed.  Here  and  there, 
on  its  banks,  shone  the  deep  yellow  stars  of  the  flower  they 
sought. 

Richard  Hilton  walked  as  in  a  dream,  mechanically 
plucking  a  stem  of  rudbeckia,  only  to  toss  it,  presently,  into 
the  water. 


378  Friend  Eli's  Daughter. 

"Why,  Richard!  what's  thee  doing?"  cried  Asenath ; 
"thee  has  thrown  away  the  very  best  specimen." 

"  Let  it  go,"  he  answered,  sadly.  "  I  am  afraid  every- 
thing else  is  thrown  away." 

"What  does  thee  mean?"  she  asked,  with  a  look  of 
surprised  and  anxious  inquiry. 

"Don't  ask  me,  Asenath.  Or — yes,  I  will  tell  you.  I 
must  say  it  to  you  now,  or  never  afterwards.  Do  you  know 
what  a  happy  life  I  Ve  been  leading  since  I  came  here  ?  — 
that  I  Ve  learned  what  life  is,  as  if  I  'd  never  known  it 
before  ?  I  want  to  live,  Asenath,  —  and  do  you  know 
why?" 

"I  hope  thee  will  live,  Richard,"  she  said,  gently  and 
tenderly,  her  deep-blue  eyes  dim  with  the  mist  of  unshed 
tears. 

"  But,  Asenath,  how  am  I  to  live  without  you  ?  But  you 
can't  understand  that,  because  you  do  not  know  what  you 
are  to  me.  No,  you  never  guessed  that  all  this  while  I  've 
been  loving  you  more  and  more,  until  now  I  have  no  other 
idea  of  death  than  not  to  see  you,  not  to  love  you,  not  to 
share  your  life  !  " 

"O,  Richard!" 

"  I  knew  you  would  be  shocked,  Asenath.  I  meant  to 
have  kept  this  to  myself.  You  never  dreamed  of  it,  and  I 
had  no  right  to  disturb  the  peace  of  your  heart.  The  truth 
is  told  now,  —  and  I  cannot  -take  it  back,  if  I  wished.  But 
if  you  cannot  love,  you  can  forgive  me  for  loving  you,  — 
forgive  me  now,  and  every  day  of  my  life." 

He  uttered  these  words  with  a  passionate  tenderness, 
standing  on  the  edge  of  the  stream,  and  gazing  into  its 
waters.  His  slight  frame  trembled  with  the  violence  of  his 
emotion.  Asenath,  who  had  become  very  pale  as  he  com- 
menced to  speak,  gradually  flushed  over  neck  and  brow  as 
she  listened.  Her  head  drooped,  the  gathered  flowers  fell 
from  her  hands,  and  she  hid  her  face.  For  a  few  minutes 
no  sound  was  heard  but  the  liquid  gurgling  of  the  water, 
and  the  whistle  of  a  bird  in  the  thicket  beside  them. 


Friend  Eli's  Daughter.  379 

Richard  Hilton  at  last  turned,  and,  in  a  voice  of  hesitating 
entreaty,  pronounced  her  name,  — 

"  Asenath ! " 

She  took  away  her  hands  and  slowly  lifted  her  face.  She 
was  pale,  but  her  eyes  met  his  with  a  frank,  appealing, 
tender  expression,  which  caused  his  heart  to  stand  still  a 
moment.  He  read  no  reproach,  no  faintest  thought  of 
blame  ;  but  —  was  -it  pity  ?  —  was  it  pardon  ?  —  or 

"We  stand  before  God,  Richard,"  said  she,  in  a  low, 
sweet,  solemn  tone.  "He  knows  that  I  do  not  need  to 
forgive  thee.  If  thee  requires  it,  I  also  require  His  for- 
giveness for  myself." 

Though  a  deeper  blush  now  came  to  cheek  and  brow,  she 
met  his  gaze  with  the  bravery  of  a  pure  and  innocent  heart. 
Richard,  stunned  with  the  sudden  and  unexpected  bliss, 
strove  to  take  the  fuU  consciousness  of  it  into  a  being 
which  seemed  too  narrow  to  contain  it.  His  first  impulse 
was  to  rush  forward,  clasp  her  passionately  in  his  arms, 
and  hold  her  in  the  embrace  which  encircled,  for  him,  the 
boundless  promise  of  life  ;  but  she  stood  there,  defenceless, 
save  in  her  holy  truth  and  trust,  and  his  heart  bowed  down 
and  gave  her  reverence. 

"  Asenath,"  said  he,  at  last,  "  I  never  dared  to  hope  for 
this.  God  bless  you  for  those  words  !  Can  you  trust  me  ? 
—  can  you  indeed  love  me?" 

"  I  can  trust  thee,  —  I  do  love  thee  !  " 

They  clasped  each  other's  hands  in  one  long,  clinging 
pressure.  No  kiss  was  given,  but  side  by  side  they  walked 
slowly  up  the  dewy  meadows,  in  happy  and  hallowed  silence. 
Asenath's  face  became  troubled  as  the  old  farm-house  ap- 
peared through  the  trees. 

"  Father  and  mother  must  know  of  this,  Richard,"  said 
she.  "  I  am  afraid  it  may  be  a  cross  to  them." 

The  same  fear  had  already  visited  his  own  mind,  but  he 
answered,  cheerfully,  — 

"  I  hope  not  I  think  I  have  taken  a  new  lease  of  life, 
and  shall  soon  be  strong  enough  to  satisfy  them.  Besides, 
my  father  is  in  prosperous  business." 


380  Friend  Eli's  Daughter. 

"It  is  not  that,"  she  answered;  "but  thee  is  not  one 
of  us." 

It  was  growing  dusk  when  they  reached  the  house.  In 
the  dim  candle-light  Asenath's  paleness  was  not  remarked  ; 
and  Richard's  silence  was  attributed  to  fatigue. 

The  next  morning  the  whole  family  attended  meeting  at 
the  neighboring  Quaker  meeting-house,  in  the  preparation 
for  which,  and  the  various  special  occupations  of  their 
"  First-day  "  mornings,  the  unsuspecting  parents  overlooked 
that  inevitable  change  in  the  faces  of  the  lovers  which  they 
must  otherwise  have  observed.  After  dinner,  as  Eli  was 
taking  a  quiet  walk  in  the  garden,  Richard  Hilton  ap- 
proached him. 

"  Friend  Mitchenor,"  said  he,  "  I  should  like  to  have 
some  talk  with  thee." 

"  What  is  it,  Richard  ?  "  asked  the  old  man,  breaking  off 
some  pods  from  a  seedling  radish,  and  rubbing  them  in  the 
palm  of  his  hand. 

"  I  hope,  Friend  Mitchenor,"  said  the  young  man,  scarce- 
ly knowing  how  to  approach  so  important  a  crisis  in  his  life, 
"I  hope  thee  has  been  satisfied  with  my  conduct  since  I 
came  to  live  with  thee,  and  has  no  fault  to  find  with  me  as  a 
man." 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Eli,  turning  around  and  looking  up, 
sharply,  "  does  thee  want  a  testimony  from  me  ?  I  Ve 
nothing,  that  I  know  of,  to  say  against  thee." 

"If  I  were  sincerely  attached  to  thy  daughter,  Friend 
Mitchenor,  and  she  returned  the  attachment,  co'uld  thee 
trust  her  happiness  in  my  hands  ?  " 

"What?"  cried  Eli,  straightening  himself  and  glaring 
upon  the  speaker,  with  a  face  too  amazed  to  express  any 
other  feeling. 

"  Can  you  confide  Asenath's  happiness  to  my  care?  I 
love  her  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul,  and  the  fortune  of 
my  life  depends  on  your  answer." 

The  straight  lines  in  the  old  man's  face  seemed  to  grow 
deeper  and  more  rigid,  and  his  eyes  shone  with  the  chill 


Friend  Eli's  Daughter.  381 

glitter  of  steel.  Richard,  not  daring  to  say  a  word  more, 
awaited  his  reply  in  intense  agitation. 

"  So  !  "  he  exclaimed  at  last,  «  this  is  the  way  thee  's  re- 
paid me!  I  didn't  expect  this  from  thee!  Has  thee 
spoken  to  her?" 

"I  have." 

"  Thee  has,  has  thee  ?  And  I  suppose  thee  's  persuaded 
her  to  think  as  thee  does.  Thee  'd  better  never  have  come 
here.  When  I  want  to  lose  my  daughter,  and  can't  find 
anybody  else  for  her,  I  '11  let  thee  know." 

"  What  have  you  against  me,  Friend  Mitchenor  ? " 
Richard  sadly  asked,  forgetting,  in  his  excitement,  the 
Quaker  speech  he  had  learned. 

"  Thee  need  n't  use  compliments  now !  Asenath  shall 
be  a  Friend  while  /  live ;  thy  fine  clothes  and  merry-mak- 
ings and  vanities  are  not  for  her.  Thee  belongs  to  the 
world,  and  thee  may  choose  one  of  the  world's  women." 

"  Never  !  "  protested  Richard  ;  but  Friend  Mitchenor  was 
already  ascending  the  garden-steps  on  his  way  to  the  house. 

The  young  man,  utterly  .overwhelmed,  wandered  to  the 
nearest  grove  and  threw  himself  on  the  ground.  Thus,  in 
a  miserable  chaos  of  emotion,  unable  to  grasp  any  fixed 
thought,  the  hours  passed  away.  Towards  evening,  he  heard 
a  footstep  approaching,  and  sprang  up.  It  was  Moses. 

The  latter  was  engaged,  with  the  consent  of  his  parents, 
and  expected  to  "  pass  meeting  "  in  a  few  weeks.  He  knew 
what  had  happened,  and  felt  a  sincere  sympathy  for  Richard, 
for  whom  he  had  a  cordial  regard.  His  face  was  very  grave, 
but  kind. 

"  Thee  'd  better  come  in,  Richard,"  said  he  ;  "  the  even- 
ings are  damp,  and  I  've  brought  thy  overcoat.  I  know 
everything,  and  I  feel  that  it  must  be  a  great  cross  for  thee. 
But  thee  won't  be  alone  in  bearing  it." 

"  Do  you  think  there  is  no  hope  of  your  father  relent- 
ing ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  tone  of  despondency  which  anticipated 
the  answer. 

" Father's  very  hard  to  move,"  said  Moses;  "and  when 


382  Friend  Eli's  Daughter. 

mother  and  Asenath  can't  prevail  on  him,  nobody  else  need 
try.  I  'm  afraid  thee  must  make  up  thymind  to  the  trial. 
I  'm  sorry  to  say  it,  Richard,  but  I  think  thee  'd  better  go 
back  to  town." 

"  I  '11  go  to-morrow,  —  go  and  die  !  "  he  muttered  hoarsely, 
as  he  followed  Moses  to  the  house. 

Abigail,  as  she  saw  his  haggard  face,  wept  quietly.  She 
pressed  his  hand  tenderly,  but  said  nothing.  Eli  was  stern 
and  cold  as  an  Iceland  rock.  Asenath  did  not  make  her  ap- 
pearance. At  supper,  the  old  man  and  his  son  exchanged 
a  few  words  about  the  farm-work  to  be  done  on  the  morrow, 
but  nothing  else  was  said.  Richard  soon  left  the  room  and 
went  up  to  his  chamber  to  spend  his  last,  his  only  unhappy 
night  at  the  farm.  A  yearning,  pitying  look  from  Abigail 
accompanied  him. 

"  Try  and  not  think  hard  of  us  ! "  was  he'-  farewell  the 
next  morning,  as  he  stepped  into  the  old  chair,  in  which 
Moses  was  to  convey  him  to  the  village  where  he  should 
meet  the  Doylestown  stage..  So  without  a  word  of  comfort 
from  Asenath's  lips,  without  even  a' last  look  at  her  beloved 
face,  he  was  taken  away. 


IV. 

TRUE  and  firm  and  self-reliant  as  was  the  nature  of 
Asenath  Mitchenor,  the  thought  of  resistance  to  her 
father's  will  never  crossed  her  mind.  It  was  fixed,  that  she 
must  renounce  all  intercourse  with  Richard  Hilton  ;  it  was 
even  sternly  forbidden  her  to  see  him  again  during  the  few 
hours  he  remained  in  the  house  ;  but  the  sacred  love,  thus 
rudely  dragged  to  the  light  and  outraged,  was  still  her  own. 
She  would  take  it  back  into  the  keeping  of  her  heart,  and 
if  a  day  should  ever  come  when  he  would  be  free  to  return 
and  demand  it  of  her,  he  would  find  it  there,  unwithered, 
with  all  the  unbreathed  perfume  hoarded  in  its  folded  leaves. 
If  that  day  came  not,  she  would  at  the  last  give  it  back  to 
God,  saying,  "  Father,  here  is  Thy  most  precious  gift :  be- 
stow it  as  Thou  wilt." 


Friend  Eli's  Daughter.  383 

As  her  life  had  never  before  been  agitated  by  any  strong . 
emotion,  so  it  was  not  outwardly  agitated  now.  The  placid 
waters  of  her  soul  did  not  heave  and  toss  before  those  winds 
of  passion  and  sorrow;  they  lay  in  dull,  leaden  calm, 
under  a  cold  and  sunless  sky.  What  struggles  with  her- 
self she  underwent  no  one  ever  knew.  After  Richard 
Hilton's  departure,  she  never  mentioned  his  name,  or  re- 
ferred, in  any  way,  to  the  summer's  companionship  with 
him.  She  performed  her  household  duties,  if  not  cheerfully, 
at  least  as  punctually  and  carefully  as  before  ;  and  her  father 
congratulated  himself  that  the  unfortunate  attachment  had 
struck  no  deeper  root.  Abigail's  finer  sight,  however,  was 
not  deceived  by  this  external  resignation.  She  noted  the 
faint  shadows  under  the  eyes,  the  increased  whiteness 
of  the  temples,  the  unconscious  traces  of  pain  which  some- 
times played  °r>out  the  dimpled  corners  of  the  mouth,  and 
watched  her  c  lughter  with  a  silent,  tender  solicitude. 

The  wedding  of  Moses  was  a  severe  test  of  Asenath's 
stfength,  but  she  stood  tb*\  trial  nobly,  performing  all  the 
duties  required  by  her  petition  with  such  sweet  composure 
that  many  of  the  older  female  Friends  remarked  to  Abigail, 
"  How  womanly  Asenath  has  grown  !  "  Eli  Mitchenor 
noted,  with  peculiar  satisfaction,  that  the  eyes  of  the  young 
Friends  —  some  of  them  of  great  promise  in  the  sect,  and 
well  endowed  with  worldly  goods  —  followed  her  admiringly. 
"It  will  not  be  long,"  he  thought,  "before  she  is  con- 
soled." 

Fortune  seemed  to  favor  his  plans,  and  justify  his  harsh 
treatment  of  Richard  Hilton.  There  were  unfavorable 
accounts  of  the  young  man's  conduct.  His  father  had  died 
during  the  winter,  and  he  was  represented  as  having  become 
very  reckless  and  dissipated.  These  reports  at  last  as- 
sumed such  a  definite  form  that  Friend  Mitchenor  brought 
them  to  the  notice  of  his  family. 

"  I  met  Josiah  Comly  in  the  road,"  said  he  one  day  at  din- 
ner. "  He  's  just  come  from  Philadelphia,  and  brings  bad 
news  of  Richard  Hilton.  He's  taken  to  drink,  and  is 


3 84  Friend  Eli's  Daughter. 

spending  in  wickedness  the  money  his  father  left  him. 
His  friends  have  a  great  concern  about  him,  but  it  seems 
he  's  not  to  be  reclaimed." 

Abigail  looked  imploringly  at  her  husband,  but  he  either 
disregarded  or  failed  to  understand  her  look.  Asenath,  who 
had  grown  very  pale,  steadily  met  her  father's  gaze,  and 
said,  in  a  tone  which  he  had  never  yet  heard  from  her 
lips,  — 

"  Father,  will  thee  please  never  mention  Richard  Hilton's 
name  when  I  am  by  ?  " 

The  words  were  those  of  entreaty,  but  the  voice  was  that 
of  authority.  The  old  man  was  silenced  by  a  new  and 
unexpected  power  in  his  daughter's  heart ;  he  suddenly  felt 
that  she  was  not  a  girl,  as  heretofore,  but  a  woman,  whom 
he  might  persuade,  but  could  no  longer  compel. 

"  It  shall  be  as  thee  wishes,  Asenath,"  he  said  ;  "we  had 
best  forget  him." 

Of  their  friends,  however,  she  could  not  expect  this  re- 
serve, and  she  was  doomed  to  hear  stories  of  Richard  which 
clouded  and  embittered  her  thoughts  of  him.  And  a  still 
severer  trial  was  in  store.  She  accompanied  her  father,  in 
obedience  to  his  wish,  and  against  her  own  desire,  to  the 
Yearly  Meeting  in  Philadelphia.  It  has  passed  into  a  pro- 
verb, that  the  Friends  on  these  occasions,  always  bring  rain 
with  them  ;  and  the  period  of  her  visit  was  no  exception  to 
the  rule.  The  showery  days  of  "  Yearly  Meeting  Week  " 
glided  by,  until  the  last,  and  she  looked  forward  with  relief 
to  the  morrow's  return  to  Buck's  County,  glad  to.  have  es- 
caped a  meeting  with  Richard  Hilton,  which  might  have 
confirmed  her  fears,  and  could  but  have  given  her  pain  in 
any  case. 

As  she  and  her  father  joined  each  other,  outside  the  meet- 
ing-house, at  the  close  of  the  afternoon  meeting,  a  light  rain 
was  falling.  She  took  his  arm,  under  the  capacious  um- 
brella, and  they  were  soon  alone  in  the  wet  streets,  on  their 
way  to  the  house  of  the  Friends  who  entertained  them. 
At  a  crossing,  where  the  water,  pouring  down  the  gutter 


Friend  Eli's  Daughter.  385 

towards  the  Delaware,  caused  them  to  halt,  a  man,  plashing 
through  the  flood,  staggered  towards  them.  Without  an 
umbrella,  with  dripping,  disordered  clothes,  yet  with  a  hot, 
flushed  face,  around  which  the  long  black  hair  hung  wildly, 
he  approached,  singing  to  himself,  with  maudlin  voice,  a 
song  which  would  have  been  sweet  and  tender  in  a  lover's 
mouth.  Friend  Mitchenor  drew  to  one  side,  lest  his  spot- 
less drab  should  be  brushed  by  the  unclean  reveller ;  but 
the  latter,  looking  up,  stopped  suddenly,  face  to  face  with 
them. 

"  Asenath  !  "  he  cried,  in  a  voice  whose  anguish  pierced 
through  the  confusion  of  his  senses,  and  struck  down  into 
the  sober  quick  of  his  soul. 

"Richard!"  she  breathed,  rather  than  spoke,  in  a  low, 
terrified  voice. 

It  was  indeed  Richard  Hilton  who  stood  before  her,  or  rath- 
er—  as  she  afterwards  thought,  in  recalling  the  interview  — 
the  body  of  Richard  Hilton,  possessed  by  an  evil  spirit. 
His  cheeks  burned  with  a  more  than  hectic  red,  his  eyes 
were  wild  and  bloodshot,  and  though  the  recognition  had 
suddenly  sobered  him,  an  impatient,  reckless  devil  seemed  to 
lurk  under  the  set  mask  of  his  features. 

"  Here  I  am,  Asenath,"  he  said  at  length,  hoarsely.  "  I 
said  it  was  death,  did  n't  I  ?  Well,  it 's  worse  than  death,  I 
suppose  ;  but  what  matter  ?  You  can  't  be  more  lost  to  me 
now  than  you  were  already.  This  is  thy  doing,  Friend  Eli !  " 
he  continued,  turning  to  the  old  man,  with  a  sneering  em- 
phasis on  the  "  thy"  "  I  hope  thee  's  satisfied  with  thy 
work?" 

Here  he  burst  into  a  bitter,  mocking  laugh,  which  it  chilled 
Asenath's  blood  to  hear. 

The  old  man  turned  pale.  "  Come  away,  child  !  "  said  he, 
tugging  at  her  arm.  But  she  stood  firm,  strengthened  for 
the  moment  by  a  solemn  feeling  of  duty  which  trampled 
down  her  pain. 

"  Richard,"  she  said,  with  the  music  of  an  immeasurable 
sorrow  in  her  voice,  "O  Richard,  what  has  thee  done? 
17  Y 


386  Friend  Elis  Daughter. 

Where  the  Lord  commands  resignation,  thee  has  been  re- 
bellious ;  where  he  chasteneth  to  purify,  thee  turns  blindly 
to  sin.  I  had  not  expected  this. of  thee,  Richard  ;  I  thought 
thy  regard  for  me  was  of  the  kind  which  would  have  helped 
and  uplifted  thee,  —  not-  through  me,  as  an  unworthy  object, 
but  through  the  hopes  and  the  pure  desires  of  thy  own  heart. 
I  expected  that  thee  would  so  act  as  to  justify  what  I  felt 
towards  thee,  not  to  make  my  affection  a  reproach,  —  O 
Richard,  not  to  cast  over  my  heart  the  shadow  of  thy 
sin  ! " 

The  wretched  young  man  supported  himself  against  the 
post  of  an  awning,  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  wept 
passionately.  Once  or  twice  he  essayed  to  speak,  but  his 
voice  was  choked  by  sobs,  and,  after  a  look  from  the  stream- 
ing eyes  which  Asenath  could  scarcely  bear  to  meet,  he 
again  covered  his  face.  A  stranger,  coming  down  the  street, 
paused  out  of  curiosity.  "  Come,  come  !  "  cried  Eli,  once 
more,  eager  to  escape  from  the  scene.  His  daughter  stood 
still,  and  the  man  slowly  passed  on. 

Asenath  could  not  thus  leave  her  lost  lover,  in  his  de- 
spairing grief.  She  again  turned  to  him,  her  own  tears 
flowing  fast  and  free. 

"  I  do  not  judge  thee,  Richard,  but  the  words  that  passed 
between  us  give  me  a  right  to  speak  to  thee.  It  was  hard 
to  lose  sight  of  thee  then,  but  it  is  still  harder  for  me  to  see 
thee  now.  If  the  sorrow  and  pity  I  feel  could  save  thee,  I 
would  be  willing  never  to  know  any  other  feelings.  I  would 
still  do  anything  for  thee  except  that  which  thee  cannot  ask, 
as  thee  now  is,  and  I  could  not  give.  Thee  has  made  the 
gulf  between  us  so  wide  that  it  cannot  be  crossed.  But  I 
can  now  weep  for  thee  and  pray  for  thee  as  a  fellow-crea- 
ture whose  soul  is'  still  precious  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord. 
Fare  thee  well!" 

He  seized  the  hand  she  extended,  bowed  down,  and 
showered  mingled  tears  and  kisses  upon  it.  Then,  with  a 
wild  sob  in  his  throat,  he  started  up  and  rushed  down  the 
street,  through  the  fast-falling  rain.  The  father  and  daugh- 


Friend  Eli's  Daughter.  387 

ter  walked  home  in  silence.  Eli  had  heard  every  word  that 
was  spoken,  and  felt  that  a  spirit  whose  utterances  he  dared 
not  question  had  visited  Asenath's  tongue. 

She,  as  year  after  year  went  by,  regained  the  peace  and 
patience  which  give  a  sober  cheerfulness  to  life.  The  pangs 
of  her  heart  grew  dull  and  transient ;  but  there  were  two 
pictures  in  her  memory  which  never  blurred  in  outline  or 
faded  in  color :  one,  the  break  of  autumn  flowers,  under  the 
bright  autumnal  sky,  with  bird  and  stream  making  accordant 
music  to  the  new  voice  of  love ;  the  other,  a  rainy  street, 
with  a  lost,  reckless  man  leaning  against  an  awning-post, 
and  staring  in  her  face  with  eyes  whose  unutterable  woe, 
when  she  dared  to  recall  it,  darkened  the  beauty  of  the 
earth,  and  almost  shook  her  trust  in  the  providence  of  God. 


V. 

YEAR  after  year  passed  by,  but  not  without  bringing 
change  to  the  Mitchenor  family.  Moses  had  moved 
to  Chester  County  soon  after  his  marriage,  and  had  a  good 
farm  of  his  own.  At  the  end  of  ten  years  Abigail  died ; 
and  the  old  man,  who  had  not  only  lost  his  savings  by  an 
unlucky  investment,  but  was  obliged  to  mortgage  his  farm, 
finally  determined  to  sell  it  and  join  his  son.  He  was  get- 
ting too  old  to  manage  it  properly,  impatient  under  the 
unaccustomed  pressure  of  debt,  and  depressed  by  the  loss 
of  the  wife  to  whom,  without  any  outward  show  of  tender- 
ness, he  was,  in  truth,  tenderly  attached.  He  missed  her 
more  keenly  in  the  places  where  she  had  lived  and  moved 
than  in  a  neighborhood  without  the  memory  of  her  presence. 
The  pang  with  which  he  parted  from  his  home  was  weak- 
ened by  the  greater  pang  which  had  preceded  it. 

It  was  a  harder  trial  to  Asenath.  She  shrank  from  the 
encounter  with  new  faces,  and  the  necessity  of  creating 
new  associations.  There  was  a  quiet  satisfaction  in  the 
ordered,  monotonous  round  of  her  life,  which  might  be  the 


388  Friend  Eli's  Daughter. 

same  elsewhere,  but  here  alone  was  the  nook  which  held  all 
the  morning  sunshine  she  had  ever  known.  Here  still 
lingered  the  halo  of  the  sweet  departed  summer,  —  here 
still  grew  the  familiar  wild-flowers  which  the  first  Richard 
Hilton  had  gathered.  This  was  the  Paradise  in  which  the 
Adam  of  her  heart  had  dwelt,  before  his  fall.  Her  resigna- 
tion and  submission  entitled  her  to  keep  those  pure  and 
perfect  memories,  though  she  was  scarcely  conscious  of 
their  true  charm.  She  did  not  dare  to  express  to  herself,  in 
words,  that  one  everlasting  joy  of  woman's  heart,  through  all 
trials  and  sorrows,  —  "I  have  loved,  I  have  been  beloved." 

On  the  last "  First-day  "  before  their  departure,  she  walked 
down  the  meadows  to  the  lonely  brake  between  the  hills. 
It  was  the  early  spring,  and  the  black  buds  of  the  ash  had 
just  begun  to  swell.  The  maples  were  dusted  with  crimson 
bloom,  and  the  downy  catkins  of  the  swamp-willow  dropped 
upon  the  stream  and  floated  past  her,  as  once  the  autumn 
leaves.  In  the  edges  of  the  thickets  peeped  forth  the  blue, 
scentless  violet,  the  fairy  cups  of  the  anemone,  and  the 
pink-veined  bells  of  the  miskodeed.  The  tall  blooms 
through  which  the  lovers  walked  still  slept  in  the  chilly 
earth ;  but  the  sky  above  her  was  mild  and  blue,  and  the 
remembrance  of  the  day  came  back  to  her  with  a  delicate, 
pungent  sweetness,  like  the  perfume  of  the  trailing  arbutus 
in  the  air  around  her.  In  a  sheltered,  sunny  nook,  she 
found  a  single  erythronium,  lured  forth  in  advance  of  its 
proper  season,  and  gathered  it  as  a  relic  of  the  spot,  which 
she  might  keep  without  blame.  As  she  stooped  to  pluck  it, 
her  own  face  looked  up  at  her  out  of  a  little  pool  filled  by 
the  spring  rains.  Seen  against  the  reflected  sky,  it  shone 
with  a  soft  radiance,  and  the  earnest  eyes  met  hers,  as  if  it 
were  her  young  self,  evoked  from  the  past,  to  bid  her  fare- 
well. «'  Farewell !  "  she  whispered,  taking  leave  at  once,  as 
she  believed,  of  youth  and  the  memory  of  love. 

During  those  years  she  had  more  than  once  been  sought 
in  marriage,  but  had  steadily,  though  kindly,  refused.  Once, 
when  the  suitor  was  a  man  whose  character  and  position 


Friend  Eli's  Daughter.  389 

made  the  union  very  desirable  in  Eli  Mitchenor's  eyes,  he 
ventured  to  use  his  paternal  influence.  Asenath's  gentle 
resistance  was  overborne  by  his  arbitrary  force  of  will,  and 
her  protestations  were  of  no  avail. 

"  Father,"  she  finally  said,  in  the  tone  which  he  had  once 
heard  and  still  remembered)  "  thee  can  take  away,  but  thee 
cannot  give." 

He  never  mentioned  the  subject  again. 

Richard  Hilton  passed  out  of  her  knowledge  shortly  after 
her  meeting  with  him  in  Philadelphia.  She  heard,  indeed, 
that  his  headlong  career  of  dissipation  was  not  arrested,  — 
that  his  friends  had  given  him  up  as  hopelessly  ruined,  — 
and,  finally,  that  he  had  left  the  city.  After  that,  all  reports 
ceased.  He  was  either  dead,  or  reclaimed  and  leading  a 
better  life,  somewhere  far  away.  Dead,  she  believed, — 
almost  hoped  ;  for  in  that  case  might  he  not  now  be  enjoy- 
ing the  ineffable  rest  and  peace  which  she  trusted  might  be 
her  portion?  It -was  better  to  think  of  him  as  a  purified 
spirit,  waiting  to  meet  her  in  a  holier  communion,  than  to 
know  that  he  was  still  bearing  the  burden  of  a  soiled  and 
blighted  life.  In  any  case,  her  own  future  was  plain  and 
clear.  It  was  simply  a  prolongation  of  the  present,  —  an 
alternation  of  seed-time  and  harvest,  filled  with  humble 
duties  and  cares,  until  the  Master  should  bid  her  lay  down 
her  load  and  follow  Him. 

Friend  Mitchenor  bought  a  small  cottage  adjacent  to 
his  son's  farm,  in  a  community  which  consisted  mostly  of 
Friends,  and  not  far  from  the  large  old  meeting-house  in 
which  the  Quarterly  Meetings  were  held.  He  at  once  took 
his  place  on  the  upper  seat,  among  the  elders,  most  of 
whom  he  knew  already,  from  having  met  them,  year  after 
year,  in  Philadelphia.  The  charge  of  a  few  acres  of  ground 
gave  him  sufficient  occupation ;  the  money  left  to  him  after 
the  sale  of  his  farm  was  enough  to  support  him  comfortably ; 
and  a  late  Indian  summer  of  contentment  seemed  now  to 
have  come  to  the  old  man.  He  was  done  with  the  earnest 
business  of  life.  Moses  was  gradually  taking  his  place,  as 


390  Friend  Eli's  Daughter. 

father  and  Friend ;  and  Asenath  would  be  reasonably  pro- 
vided for  at  his  death.  As  his  bodily  energies  decayed,  his 
imperious  temper  softened,  his  mind  became  more  accessi- 
ble to  liberal  influences,  and  he  even  cultivated  a  cordial 
friendship  with  a  neighboring  farmer  who  was  one  of  "  the 
world's  people."  Thus,  at  seventy-five,  he  was  really  young- 
er, because  tenderer  of  heart  and  more  considerate  than  he 
had  been  at  sixty. 

Asenath  was  now  a  woman  of  thirty-five,  and  suitors  had 
ceased  to  approach  her.  Much  of  her  beauty  still  remained, 
but  her  face  had  become  thin  and  wasted,  and  the  inevitable 
lines  were  beginning  to  form  around  her  eyes.  Her  dress 
was  plainer  than  ever,  and  she  wore  the  scoop-bonnet  of 
drab  silk,  in  which  no  woman  can  seem  beautiful,  unless 
she  be  very  old.  She  was  calm  and  grave  in  her  demeanor, 
save  that  her  perfect  goodness  and  benevolence  shone 
through  and  warmed  her  presence  ;  but,  when  earnestly  in- 
terested, she  had  been  known  to  speak  her  mind  so  clearly 
and  forcibly  that  it  was  generally  surmised  among  the 
Friends  that  she  possessed  '•'  a  gift,"  which  might,  in  time, 
raise  her  to  honor  among  them.  To  the  children  of  Moses 
she  was  a  good  genius,  and  a  word  from  "  Aunt  'Senath  " 
oftentimes  prevailed  when  the  authority  of  the  parents  was 
disregarded.  In  them  she  found  a  new  source  of  happi- 
ness ;  and  when  her  old  home  on  the  Neshaminy  had  been 
removed  a  little  farther  into  the  past,  so  that  she  no  longer 
looked,  with  every  morning's  sun,  for  some  familiar  feature 
of  its  scenery,  her  submission  brightened  into  a  cheerful 
content  with  life. 

It  was  summer,  and  Quarterly-Meeting  Day  had  arrived. 
There  had  been  rumors  of  the  expected  presence  of"  Friends 
from  a  distance,"  and  not  only  those  of  the  district,  but 
most  .of  the  neighbors  who  were  not  connected  with  the 
sect,  attended.  By  the  by-road  through  the  woods,  it  was 
not  more  than  half  a  mile  from  Friend  Mitchenor's  cottage 
to  the  meeting-house,  and  Asenath,  leaving  her  father  to  be 
taken  by  Moses  in  his  carriage,  set  out  on  foot.  It  was  a 


Friend  Eli's  Daughter.     .  391 

sparkling,  breezy  day,  and  the  forest  was  full  of  life.  Squir- 
rels chased  each  other  along  the  branches  of  the  oaks,  and 
the  air  was  filled  with  fragrant  odors  of  hickory-leaves, 
sweet-fern,  and  spice-wood.  Picking  up  a  flower  here  and 
there,  Asenath  walked  onward,  rejoicing  alike  in  shade  and 
sunshine,  grateful  for  all  the  consoling  beauty  which  the 
earth  offers  to  a  lonely  heart.  That  serene  content  which 
she  had  learned  to  call  happiness  had  filled  her  being  until 
the  dark  canopy  was  lifted  and  the  waters  took  back  their 
transparency  under  a  cloudless  sky. 

Passing  around  to  the  "women's  side"  of  the  meeting- 
house, she  mingled  with  her  friends,  who  were  exchanging 
information  concerning  the  expected  visitors.  Micajah 
Morrill  had  not  arrived,  they  said,  but  Ruth  Baxter  had 
spent  the  last  night  at  Friend  Way's,  and  would  certainly 
be  there.  Besides,  there  were  Friend  Chandler,  from  Nine 
Partners,  and  Friend  Carter,  from  Maryland:  they  had 
been  seen  on  the  ground.  Friend  Carter  was  said  to  have 
a  wonderful  gi'ft,  —  Mercy  Jackson  had  heard  him  once,  in 
Baltimore.  The  Friends  there  had  been  a  little  exercised 
about  him,  because  they  thought  he  was  too  much  inclined 
to  "the  newness,"  but  it  was  known  that  the  Spirit  had 
often  manifestly  led  him.  Friend  Chandler  had  visited 
Yearly  Meeting  once,  they  believed.  He  was  an  old  man, 
and  had  been  a  personal  friend  of  Elias  Hicks. 

At  the  appointed  hour  they  entered  the  house.  After  the 
subdued  rustling  which  ensued  upon  taking  their  seats, 
there  was  an  interval  of  silence,  shorter  than  usual,  because 
it  was  evident  that  many  persons  would  feel  the  promptings 
of  the  Spirit.  Friend  Chandler  spoke  first,  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  Ruth  Baxter,  a  frail  little  woman,  with  a  voice  of 
exceeding  power.  The  not  unmelodious  chant  in  which  she 
delivered  her  admonitions  rang  out,  at  times,  like  the  peal 
of  a  trumpet.  Fixing  her  eyes  on  vacancy,  with  her  hands 
on  the  wooden  rail  before  her,  and  her  body  slightly  sway- 
ing to  and  fro,  her  voice  soared  far  aloft  at  the  commence- 
ment of  every  sentence,  gradually  dropping,  through  a  me- 


392  Friend  Eli's  Daughter. 

lodious  scale  of  tone,  to  the  close.  She  resembled  an 
inspired  prophetess,  an  aged  Deborah,  crying  aloud  in  the 
valleys  of  Israel. 

The  last  speaker  was  Friend  Carter,  a  small  man,  not 
more  than  forty  years  of  age.  His  face  was  thin  and  in- 
tense in  its  expression,  his  hair  gray  at  the  temples,  and  his 
dark  eye  almost  too  restless  for  a  child  of  "  the  stillness  and 
the  quietness."  His  voice,  though  not  loud,  was  clear  and 
penetrating,  with  an  earnest,  sympathetic  quality,  which 
arrested,  not  the  ear  alone,  but  the  serious  attention  of  the 
auditor.  His  delivery  was  but  slightly  marked  by  the  pecu- 
liar rhythm  of  the  Quaker  preachers ;  and  this  fact,  per- 
haps, increased  the  effect  of  his  words,  through  the  contrast 
with  those  who  preceded  him. 

His  discourse  was  an  eloquent  vindication  of  the  law  of 
kindness,  as  the  highest  and  purest  manifestation  of  true 
Christian  doctrine.  The  paternal  relation  of  God  to  man 
was  the  basis  of  that  religion  which  appealed  directly  to  the 
heart :  so  the  fraternity  of  each  man  with  his  fellow  was  its 
practical  application.  God  pardons  the  repentant  sinner: 
we  can  also  pardon,  where  we  are  offended ;  we  can  pity, 
where  we  cannot  pardon.  Both  the  good  and  the  bad  prin- 
ciples generate  their  like  in  others.  Force  begets  force  ; 
anger  excites  a  corresponding  anger ;  but  kindness  awakens 
the  slumbering  emotions  even  of  an  evil  heart.  Love  may 
not  always  be  answered  by  an  equal  love,  but  it  has  never 
yet  created  hatred.  The  testimony  which  Friends  bear 
against  war,  he  said,  is  but  a  general  assertion,  which  has 
no  value  except  in  so  far  as  they  manifest  the  principle  of 
peace  in  their  daily  lives, — in  the  exercise  of  pity,  of  charity, 
of  forbearance,  and  Christian  love. 

The  words  of  the  speaker  sank  deeply  into  the  hearts  of 
his  hearers.  There  was  an  intense  hush,  as  if  in  truth  the 
Spirit  had  moved  him  to  speak,  and  every  sentence  was 
armed  with  a  sacred  authority.  Asenath  Mitchenor  looked 
at  him,  over  the  low  partition  which  divided  her  and  her 
sisters  from  the  men's  side,  absorbed  in  his  rapt  earnestness 


Friend  Eli's  Daughter.  393 

and  truth.  She  forgot  that  other  hearers  were  present : 
he  spake  to  her  alone.  A  strange  spell  seemed  to  seize 
upon  her  faculties  and  chain  them  at  his  feet :  had  he  beck- 
oned to  her,  she  would  have  arisen  and  walked  to  his  side. 

Friend  Carter  warmed  and  deepened  as  he  went  on.  "  I 
feel  moved  to-day,"  he  said,  —  "moved,  I  know  not  why,  but 
I  hope  for  some  wise  purpose,  —  to  relate  to  you  an  instance 
of  Divine  and  human  kindness  which  has  come  directly  to 
my  own  knowledge.  A  young  man  of  delicate  constitution, 
whose  lungs  were  thought  to  be  seriously  affected,  was  sent 
to  the  house  of  a  Friend  in  the  country,  in  order  to  try  the 
effect  of  air  and  exercise." 

Asenath  almost  ceased  to  breathe,  in  the  intensity  with 
which  she  gazed  and  listened.  Clasping  her  hands  tightly 
in  her  lap  to  prevent  them  from  trembling,  and  steadying 
herself  against  the  back  of  the  seat,  she  heard  the  story  of 
her  love  for  Richard  Hilton  told  by  the  lips  of  a  stranger  ! 
—  not  merely  of  his  dismissal  from  the  house,  but  of  that 
meeting  in  the  street,  at  which  only  she  and  her  father  were 
present !  Nay,  more,  she  heard  her  own  words  repeated, 
she  heard  Richard's  passionate  outburst  of  remorse  des- 
cribed in  language  that  brought  his  living  face  before  her ! 
She  gasped  for  breath,  —  his  face  was  before  her  !  The 
features,  sharpened  by  despairing  grief,  which  her  memory 
recalled,  had  almost  anticipated  the  harder  lines  which  fif- 
teen years  had  made,  and  which  now,  with  a  terrible  shock 
and  choking  leap  of  the  heart,  she  recognized.  Her  senses 
faded,  and  she  would  have  fallen  from  her  seat  but  for  the 
support  of  the  partition  against  which  she  leaned.  Fortu- 
nately, the  women  near  her  were  too  much  occupied  with 
the  narrative  to  notice  her  condition.  Many  of  them  wept 
silently,  with  their  handkerchiefs  pressed  over  their  mouths. 

The  first  shock  of  death-like  faintness  passed  away,  and 
she  clung  to  the  speaker's  voice,  as  if  its  sound  alone  could 
give  her  strength  to  sit  still  and  listen  further. 

"  Deserted  by  his  friends,  unable  to  stay  his  feet  on  the 
evil  path,"  he  continued,  "  the  young  man  left  his  home  and 
17* 


394  Friend  Eli's  Daughter. 

went  to  a  city  in  another  State.  But  here  it  was  easier  to 
find  associates  in  evil  than  tender  hearts  that  might  help 
him  back  to  good.  He  was  tired  of  life,  and  the  hope  of 
a  speedier  death  hardened  him  in  his  courses.  But,  my 
friends,  Death  never  comes  to  those  who  wickedly  seek 
him.  The  Lord  withholds  destruction  from  the  hands  that 
are  madly  outstretched  to  grasp  it,  and  forces  His  pity  and 
forgiveness  on  the  unwilling  soul.  Finding  that  it  was  the 
principle  of  life  which  grew  stronger  within  him,  the  young 
man  at  last  meditated  an  awful  crime.  The  thought  of 
self-destruction  haunted  him  day  and  night.  He  lingered 
around  the  wharves,  gazing  into  the  deep  waters,  and  was 
restrained  from  the  deed  only  by  the  memory  of  the  last 
loving  voice  he  had  heard.  One  gloomy  evening,  when 
even  this  memory  had  faded,  and  he  awaited  the  approach- 
ing darkness  to  make  his  design  secure,  a  hand  was  laid  on 
his  arm.  A  man  in  the  simple  garb  of  the  Friends  stood 
beside  him,  and  a  face  which  reflected  the  kindness  of  the 
Divine  Father  looked  upon  him.  '  My  child,'  said  he,  '  I 
am  drawn  to  thee  by  the  great  trouble  of  thy  mind.  Shall 
I  tell  thee  what  it  is  thee  meditates  ? '  The  young  man 
shook  his  head.  '  I  will  be  silent,  then,  but  I  will  save 
thee.  I  know  the  human  heart,  and  its  trials  and  weak- 
nesses, and  it  may  be  put  into  my  mouth  to  give  thee 
strength.'  He  took  the  young  man's  hand,  as  if  he  had 
been  a  little  child,  and  led  him  to  his  home.  He  heard  the 
sad  story,  from  beginning  to  end  ;  and  the  young  man  wept 
upon  his  breast,  to  hear  no  word  of  reproach,  but  only  the 
largest  and  tenderest  pity  bestowed  upon  him.  They  knelt 
down,  side  by  side,  at  midnight ;  and  the  Friend's  right 
hand  was  upon  his  head  while  they  prayed. 

"  The  young  man  was  rescued  from  his  evil  ways,  to  ac- 
knowledge still  further  the  boundless  mercy  of  Providence. 
The  dissipation  wherein  he  had  recklessly  sought  death 
was,  for  him,  a  marvellous  restoration  to  life.  His  lungs 
had  become  sound  and  free  from  the  tendency  to  disease. 
The  measure  of  his  forgiveness  was  almost  more  than  he 


Friend  Eli's  Daughter.  395 

could  bear.  He  bore  his  cross  thenceforward  with  a  joyful 
resignation,  and  was  mercifully  drawn  nearer  and  nearer  to 
the  Truth,  until,  in  the  fulness  of  his  convictions,  he  entered 
into  the  brotherhood  of  the  Friends. 

"  I  have  been  powerfully  moved  to  tell  you  this  story," 
Friend  Carter  concluded,  "  from  a  feeling  that  it  may  be 
needed,  here,  at  this  time,  to  influence  some  heart  trem- 
bling in  the  balance.  Who  is  there  among  you,  my  friends, 
that  may  not  snatch  a  brand  from  the  burning  ?  O,  be- 
lieve that  pity  and  charity  are  the  most  effectual  weapons 
given  into  the  hands  of  us  imperfect  mortals,  and  leave  the 
awful  attribute  of  wrath  in  the  hands  of  the  Lord !." 

He  sat  down,  and  dead  silence  ensued.  Tears  of  emo- 
tion stood  in  the  eyes  of  the  hearers,  men  as  well  as  women, 
and  tears  of  gratitude  and  thanksgiving  gushed  warmly  from 
those  of  Asenath.  An  ineffable  peace  and  joy  descended 
upon  her  heart. 

When  the  meeting  broke  up,  Friend  Mitchenor,  who  had 
not  recognized  Richard  Hilton,  but  had  heard  the  story  with 
feelings  which  he  endeavored  in  vain  to  control,  approached 
the  preacher. 

"  The  Lord  spoke  to  me  this  day  through  thy  lips,"  said 
he  ;  "  will  thee  come  to  one  side,  and  hear  me  a  minute  ?  " 

"Eli  ^Mitchenor!"  exclaimed  Friend  Carter;  "Eli!  I 
knew  not  thee  was  here  !  Does  n't  thee  know  me  ?  " 

The  old  man  stared  in  astonishment.  "  It  seems  like  a 
face  I  ought  to  know,"  he  said,  "  but  I  can't  place  thee." 

They  withdrew  to  the  shade  of  one  of  the  poplars.  Friend 
Carter  turned  again,  much  moved,  and,  grasping  the  old 
man's  hands  in  his  own,  exclaimed,  — 

"Friend  Mitchenor,  I  was  called  upon  to-day  to  speak 
of  myself.  I  am  —  or,  rather,  I  was  —  the  Richard  Hilton 
whom  thee  knew." 

Friend  Mitchenor's  face  flushed  with  mingled  emotions 
of  shame  and  joy,  and  his  grasp  on  the  preacher's  hands 
tightened. 

"•But  thee  calls  thyself  Carfer  ?  "  he  finally  said. 


396  Friend  Eli's  Daughter. 

"Soon  after  I  was  saved,"  was  the  reply,  "an  aunt  on 
the  mother's  side  died,  and  left  her  property  to  me,  on  con- 
dition that  I  should  take  her  name.  I  was  tired  of  my  own 
then,  and  to  give  it  up  seemed  only  like  losing  my  former 
self;  but  I  should  like  to  have  it  back  again  now." 

"  Wonderful  are  the  ways  of  the  Lord,  and  past  finding 
out !  "  said  the  old  man.  "  Come  home  with  me,  Richard, 
—  come  for  my  sake,  for  there  is  a  concern  on  my  mind 
until  all  is  clear  between  us.  Or,  stay,  —  will  thee  walk 
home  with  Asenath,  while  I  go  with  Moses  ?  " 

"  Asenath  ?  " 

"  Yes,  .there  she  goes,  through  the  gate.  Thee  can  easily 
overtake  her.  I  'm  coming,  Moses  !  "  —  and  he  hurried 
away  to  his  son's  carriage,  which  was  approaching. 

Asenath  felt  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  meet 
Richard  Hilton  there.  She  knew  not  why  his  name  had 
been  changed  ;  he  had  not  betrayed  his  identity  with  the 
young  man  of  his  story ;  he  evidently  did  not  wish  it  to  be 
known,  and  an  unexpected  meeting  with  her  might  sur- 
prise him  into  an  involuntary  revelation  of  the  fact.  It  was 
enough  for  her  that  a  saviour  had  arisen,  and  her  lost  Adam 
was  redeemed,  —  that  a  holier  light  than  the  autumn  sun's 
now  rested,  and  would  forever  rest,  on  the  one  landscape 
of  her  youth.  Her  eyes  shone  with  the  pure  brightness  of 
girlhood,  a  soft  warmth  colored  her  cheek  and  smoothed 
away  the  coming  lines  of  her  brow,  and  her  step  was  light 
and  elastic  as  in  the  old  time. 

Eager  to  escape  from  the  crowd,  she  crossed  the  high- 
way, dusty  with  its  string  of  returning  carriages,  and  en- 
tered the  secluded  lane.  The  breeze  had  died  away,  the 
air  was  full  of  insect-sounds,  and  the  warm  light  of  the  sink- 
ing sun  fell  upon  the  woods  and  meadows.  Nature  seemed 
penetrated  with  a  sympathy  with  her  own  inner  peace. 

But  the  crown  of  the  benignant  day  was  yet  to  come.  A 
quick  footstep  followed  her,  and  erelong  a  voice,  near  at 
hand,  called  her  by  name. 

She  stopped,  turned,  and  for  a  moment  they  stood  silent, 
face  to  face. 


Friend  Eli's  Daughter.  397 

"  I  knew  thee,  Richard  !  "  at  last  she  said,  in  a  trembling 
voice  ;  "may  the  Lord  bless  thee  !  " 

Tears  were  in  the  eyes  of  both. 

"  He  has  blessed  me,"  Richard  answered,  in  a  reverent 
tone  ;  "  and  this  is  His  last  and  sweetest  mercy.  Asenath, 
let  me  hear  that  thee  forgives  me." 

"  I  have  forgiven  thee  long  ago,  Richard,  —  forgiven,  but 
not  forgotten." 

The  hush  of  sunset  was  on  the  forest,  as  they  walked  on- 
ward, side  by  side,  exchanging  their  mutual  histories.  Not 
a  leaf  stirred  in  the  crowns  of  the  tall  trees,  and  the  dusk, 
creeping  along  between  their  stems,  brought  with  it  a  richer 
woodland  odor.  Their  voices  were  low  and  subdued,  as  if 
an  angel  of  God  were  hovering  in  the  shadows,  and  listen- 
ing, or  God  Himself  looked  down  upon  them  from  the  violet 
sky. 

At  last  Richard  stopped. 

"  Asenath,"  said  he,  "  does  thee  remember  that  spot  on 
the  banks  of  the  creek,  where  the  rudbeckias  grew  ?  " 

"  I  remember  it,"  she  answered,  a  girlish  blush  rising  to 
her  face. 

"  If  I  were  to  say  to  thee  now  what  I  said  to  thee  there, 
what  would  be  thy  answer  ?  " 

Her  words  came  brokenly. 

"  I  would  say  to  thee,  Richard,  — '  I  can  trust  thee,  —  I 
do  love  thee  ! ' " 

"  Look  at  me,  Asenath." 

Her  eyes,  beaming  with  a  clearer  light  than  even  then 
when  she  first  confessed,  were  lifted  to  his.  She  placed 
her  hands  gently  upon  his  shoulders,  and  bent  her  head 
upon  his  breast.  He  tenderly  lifted  it  again,  and,  for  the 
first  time,  her  virgin  lips  knew  the  kiss  of  man. 


A  HALF-LIFE  AND  HALF  A  LIFE. 


"On  garde  longtemps  son  premier  amant,  quand  on  n'en  prend  point  de 
second." — Maximes  Morales  du  Dttc  de  la  Rochefoucauld. 


T  is  not  suffering  alone  that  wears  out  our  lives. 
We  sometimes  are  in  a  state  when  a  sharp  pang 
would  be  hailed  almost  as  a  blessing, — when, 
rather  than  bear  any  longer  this  living  death  of  calm  stag- 
nation, we  would  gladly  rush  into  action,  into  suffering,  to 
feel  again  the  warmth  of  life  restored  to  our  blood,  to  feel  it 
at  least  coursing  through  our  veins  with  something  like  a 
living  swiftness. 

This  death-in-life  comes  sometimes  to  the  most  earnest 
men,  —  to  those  whose  life  is  fullest  of  energy  and  excite- 
ment. It  is  the  reaction,  the  weariness  which  they  name 
Ennui,  foul  fiend  that  eats  fastest  into  the  heart's  core,  that 
shakes  with  surest  hand  the  sands  of  life,  that  makes  the 
deepest  wrinkles  on  the  cheeks  and  deadens  most  surely  the 
lustre  of  the  eyes. 

But  what  are  the  occasional  visits  of  this  life-consumer, 
this  vampire  that  sucks  out  the  blood,  to  his  constant,  never- 
failing  presence  ?  There  are  those  who  feel  within  them- 
selves the  power  of  living  fullest  lives,  of  sounding  every 
chord  of  the  full  diapason  of  passion  and  feeling,  yet  who 
have  been  so  hemmed  around,  so  shut  in  by  adverse  and 
narrowing  circumstances,  that  never,  no,  not  once  in  their 
half-century  of  years  which  stretch  from  childhood  to  old 
age,  have  they  been  free  to  breath  out,  to  speak  aloud  the 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.  399 

heart  that  was  in  them.  Ever  the  same  wasting  indiffer- 
ence to  the  things  that  are,  the  same  ill-repressed  longing 
for  the  things  that  might  be.  Long  days  of  wearisome  rep- 
etition of  duties  in  which  there  is  no  life,  followed  by  restless 
nights,  when  Imagination  seizes  the  reins  in  her  own  hands, 
and  paints  the  out-blossoming  of  those  germs  of  happiness 
and  fulness  of  being  of  whose  existence  within  us  we  carry 
about  always  the  aching  consciousness. 

And  such  things  I  have  known  from  the  moment  when  I 
first  stepped  from  babyhood  into  childhood,  from  the  time 
when  life  ceased  to  be  a  play  and  came  to  have  its  duties  and 
its  sufferings.  Always  the  haunting  sense  of  a  happiness 
which  I  was  capable  of  feeling,  faint  glimpses  of  a  paradise 
of  which  I  was  a  born  denizen,  —  and  always,  too,  the  stern 
knowledge  of  the  restraints  which  held  me  prisoner,  the  idle 
longings  of  an  exile.  But  would  no  strong  effort  of  will,  no 
energy  of  heart  or  mind,  break  the  bonds  that  held  me  down, 
—  no  steady  perseverance  of  purpose  win  me  a  way  out 
of  darkness  into  light?  No,  for  I  was  a  woman,  an  ugly 
woman,  whose  girlhood  had  gone  by  without  affection,  and 
whose  womanhood  was  passing  without  love, — a  woman, 
poor  and  dependent  on  others  for  daily  bread,  and  yet  so 
bound  by  conventional  duties  to  those  around  her  that  to 
break  from  them  into  independence  would  be  to  outrage  all 
the  prejudices  of  those  who  made  her  world. 

I  could  plan  such  escape  from  my  daily  and  yearly  narrow- 
ing life,  could  dream  of  myself  walking  steadfast  and  unshaken 
through  labor  to  independence,  could  picture  a  life  where,  if 
the  heart  were  not  fed,  at  least  the  tastes  might  be  satisfied, 
could  strengthen  myself  through  all  the  imaginary  details  of 
my  going  forth  from  the  narrow  surroundings  which  made  my 
prison-walls  ;  but  when  the  time  came  to  take  the  first  step, 
my  courage  failed.  I  could  not  go  out  into  that  world  which 
looked  to  me  so  wide  and  lonely ;  the  necessity  for  love  was 
too  strong  for  me,  I  must  dwell  among  mine  own  people. 
There,  at  least,  was  the  bond  of  custom,  there  was  the  affec- 
tion which  grows  out  of  habit ;  but  in  the  world  what  hope 


400  A  Half-Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

had  I  to  win  love  from  strangers,  with  my  repellent  looks, 
awkward  movements,  and  want  of  personal  attractions  ? 

Few  persons  know  that  within  one  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  of  the  Queen  City  of  the  West,  bounded  on  both  sides 
by  highly  cultivated  tracts  of  country,  looking  out  westward- 
ly  on  the  very  garden  of  Kentucky,  almost  in  the  range  of 
railroad  and  telegraph,  in  the  very  geographical  centre  of 
our  most  populous  regions,  there  lie  some  thousand  square 
miles  of  superb  woodland,  rolling,  hill  above  hill,  in  the 
beautiful  undulations  which  characterize  the  country  border- 
ing on  the  Ohio,  watered  by  fair  streams  which  need  only 
the  clearing  away  of  the  few  obstructions  incident  to  a  new 
country  to  make  them  navigable,  and  yet  a  country  where 
the  mail  passes  only  once  a  week,  where  all  communication 
is  by  horse-paths  or  by  the  slow  course  of  the  flat-boat, 
where  schools  are  not  known  and  churches  are  never  seen, 
where  the  Methodist  itinerant  preacher  gives  all  the  relig- 
ious instruction,  and  a  stray  newspaper  furnishes  all  the  po- 
litical information.  Does  any  one  doubt  my  statement? 
Then  let  him  ask  a  passage  up-stream  in  one  of  the  flat- 
boats  that  supply  the  primitive  necessities  of  the  small  farm- 
ers who  dwell  on  the  banks  of  the  Big  Sandy,  in  that  de- 
batable border-land  which  lies  between  Kentucky  and  Vir- 
ginia ;  or  let  him,  if  he  have  a  taste  for  adventure,  hire  his 
horse  at  Catlettsburg,  at  the  mouth  of  the  river,  and  lose  his 
way  among  the  blind  bridle-paths  that  lead  to  Louisa  and 
to  Prestonburg.  If  he  stops  to  ask  a  night's  lodging  at  one 
of  the  farm-houses  that  are  to  be  found  at  the  junction  of  the 
creeks  with  the  rivers,  log-houses  with  their  primitive  out- 
buildings, their  half-constructed  rafts  of  lumber  ready  to 
float  down-stream  with  the  next  rise,  their  "  dug-outs"  for 
the  necessities  of  river-intercourse,  and  their  rough  ox- 
carts for  hauling  to  and  from  the  mill,  he  will  see  before  him 
such  a  home  as  that  in  which  I  passed  the  first  twenty 
years  of  my  life. 

I   had  little   claim  on   the  farmer  with  whom   I   lived. 
I  was  the  child  by  a  former   marriage  of  his  wife,  who 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.  401 

had  brought  me  with  her*  into  this  wilderness,  a  puny, 
ailing  creature  of  four  years,  and  into  the  three  years  that 
followed  was  compressed  all  the  happiness  I  could  remem- 
ber. The  free  life  in  the  open  air,  the  nourishing  influence 
of  the  rich  natural  scenery  by  which  I  was  surrounded,  the 
grand,  silent  trees  with  their  luxuriant  foliage,  the  fresh, 
strong  growth  of  the  vegetation,  all  seemed  to  breathe 
health  into  my  frame,  and  with  health  came  the  capacity  for 
enjoyment.  I  was  happy  in  the  mere  gift  of  existence,  hap- 
py in  the  fulness  of  content,  with  no  playmate  but  the  kind- 
ly and  lovely  mother  Earth  from  whose  bosom  I  drew  ful- 
ness of  life. 

But  in  my  seventh  year  my  mother  died,  worn  out  by  the 
endless,  unvarying  round  of  labors  which  break  down  the 
constitutions  of  our  small  farmers'  wives.  She  grew  sallow 
and  thin  under  repeated  attacks  of  chills  and  fever,  brought 
into  the  world,  one  after  another,  three  puny  infants,  only  to 
lay  them  away  from  her  breast,  side  by  side,  under  the  syc- 
amore that  overshadowed  our  cornfield,  and  visibly  wasted 
away,  growing  more  and  more  feeble,  until,  one  winter 
morning,  we  laid  her,  too,  at  rest  by  her  babies.  Before  the 
year  was  out,  my  father  (so  I  called  him)  was  married  again. 

My  step-mother  was  a  good  woman,  and  meant  to  do  her 
duty  by  me.  Nay,  she  was  more  than  that :  she  was,  as  far 
her  poor  light  went,  a  Christian.  She  had  experienced  re- 
ligion in  the  great  revival  of  18 — ,  which  was  felt  all  through 
Western  Kentucky,  under  the  preaching  of  the  Reverend 
Peleg  Dawson,  and  when  she  married  my  father  and  went 
to  bury  herself  in  the  wilds  of  *'  Up  Sandy  "  was  a  shining 
light  in  the  Methodist  Church,  a  class-leader  who  had  had 
and  had  told  experiences. 

But  all  that  glory  was  over  now ;  it  had  flashed  its  little 
day  :  for  there  is  a  glow  in  the  excitement  of  our  religious 
revivals  as  potent  in  its  effect  on  the  imaginations  of  women 
and  young  men  as  ever  were  the  fastings  and  penances 
which  brought  the  dreams  and  reveries,  the  holy  visions 
and  the  glorious  revealings,  of  the  Catholic  votaries.  In 

z 


402  A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

this  short,  triumphant  time  of  spiritual  pride  lay  the  whole 
romance  of  my  step-mother's  life.  Perhaps  it  was  well  for 
her  soul  that  she  was  taken  from  the  scene  of  her  triumphs 
and  brought  again  to  the  hard  realities  of  life.  The  self-ex- 
altation, the  «;zgodly  pride  passed  away ;  but  there  was  left 
the  earnest,  prayerful  desire  to  do  her  duty  in  her  way  and 
calling,  and  the  first  path  of  duty  which  opened  to  her  zeal 
was  that  which  led  to  the  care  of  a  motherless  child,  the 
saving  of  an  immortal  soul.  And  in  all  sincerity  and  up- 
rightness did  she  strive  to  walk  in  it.  But  what  woman  of 
five -and- thirty,  who  has  outlived  her  youth  and  womanly 
tenderness  in  the  loneliness  and  hardening  influences  of  a 
single  life,  and  who  marries  at  last  for  a  shelter  in  old  age, 
knows  the  wants  of  a  little  child?  Indeed,  what  but  a 
mother's  love  has  the  long-enduring  patience  to  support  the 
never-ceasing  calls  for  forbearance  and  perseverance  which 
a  child  makes  upon  a  grown  person  ?  Those  little  ones  need 
the  nourishment  of  love  and  praise,  but  such  milk  for  babes 
can  come  only  from  a  mother's  breast.  I  got  none  of  it.  On 
the  contrary,  my  dearly  loved  independence,  my  wild-wood 
life,  where  Nature  had  become  to  me  my  nursing-mother, 
was  exchanged  for  one  of  never-ceasing  supervision.  "  Lit- 
tle girls  must  learn  to  be  useful,"  was  the  phrase  that  greet- 
ed my  unwilling  ears  fifty  times  a  day,  which  pursued  me 
through  my  daily  round  of  dish-washings,  floor-sweepings, 
bed-making  and  potato-peeling,  to  overtake,  me  at  last  in 
the  very  moment  when  I  hoped  to  reap  the  reward  of  my 
diligence  in  a  free  afternoon  by  the  river-side  in  the  crotch 
of  the  water-maple  that  hung  over  the  stream,  clutching  me 
and  fastening  me  down  to  the  hated  square  of  patchwork, 
which  bore,  in  the  spots  of  red  that  defaced  its  white  purity 
in  following  the  line  of  my  stitches,  the  marks  of  the  wounds 
that  my  awkward  hands  inflicted  on  themselves  with  their 
tiny  weapon. 

And  so  the  years  went  on.  It  was  a  pity  that  no  babies 
came  to  soften  our  hearts,  my  step-mother's  and  mine,  and 
to  draw  us  nearer  together  as  only  the  presence  of  children 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.  403 

can.  A  household  without  children  is  always  hard  and  an- 
gular, even  when  surrounded  by  all  the  softening  influences 
of  refinement  and  education.  What  was  ours  with  its  poverty 
and  roughness,  its  every-day  cares  and  its  endless  discom- 
forts ?  One  day  was  like  all  the  rest,  and  in  their  wearying 
succession  they  rise  up  in  my  memory  like*  ghosts  of  the 
past  coming  to  lay  their  cold,  death-like  hands  on  the  feebly 
kindling  hopes  of  the  present.  I  see  myself  now,  as  I  look 
back,  a  tall,  awkward  girl  of  fifteen,  with  my  long,  straggling, 
sunburnt  hair,  my  sallow,  yet  pimply  complexion,  my  small, 
weak-looking  blue  eyes,  that  every  exposure  to  the  sun  and 
wind  would  redden,  and  my  long,  lean  hands  and  arms,  that 
offended  my  sense  of  beauty  constantly,  as  I  dwelt  on  their 
hopelessly  angular  turns.  I  had  one  beauty  ;  so  my  little 
paper-framed  glass,  that  rested  on  the  rough  rafter  that 
edged  the  sloping  roof  of  my  garret,  told  me,  whenever  I 
took  it  down  to  gaze  in  it,  which,  but  for  that  beauty,  would 
have  been  but  seldom.  It  was  a  finely  cut  and  firmly  set 
mouth  and  chin.  There  was,  and  I  felt  it,  beauty  and  char- 
acter in  the  curves  of  the  lips,  in  the  rounding  of  the  chin ; 
there  was  even  a  healthy  ruddiness  in  the  lips,  and  some- 
thing of  delicacy  in  the  even,  well-set  teeth  that  showed 
themselves  when  they  parted. 

The  gazing  at  these  beauties  gave  me  great  pleasure,  not 
for  any  effect  they  might  ever  produce  in  others,  — what  did 
I  know  of  that  ?  —  but  because  I  had  in  myself  a  strong  love 
of  the  beautiful,  a  passion  for  grace  of  form  and  brilliancy 
of  color  which  made  doubly  distasteful  to  me  our  bare, 
uncouth  walls,  with  their  ugly  straight-backed  chairs,  and 
their  frightfully  painted  yellow  or  red  tables  and  chests  of 
drawers. 

My  step  -  mother's  appearance,  too,  was  a  constant  of- 
fence to  my  beauty-loving  eye,  —  with  her  lank,  tall  figure, 
round  which  clung  those  narrow  skirts  of  "  bit "  calico,  din- 
gy red  or  dreary  brown,  —  her  feet  shod  in  the  heavy  store- 
shoes  which  were  brought  us  from  Catlettsburg  by  the  re- 
turning flat-boat  men,  —  her  sharp-featured  face,  the  fore- 


404  A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

head  and  cheeks  covered  with  brown,  mouldy-looking  spots, 
the  eyes  deep-set,  with  a  livid  dyspeptic  ring  around  them, 
and  the  lips  thin  and  pinched,  —  the  whole  face  shaded  by 
the  eternal  sun-bonnet,  which  never  left  her  head  from  early 
sunrise  till  late  bedtime  (no  Sandy  woman  is  ever  seen  with- 
out her  sun-b*onnet).  All  these  were  pepetual  annoyances 
to  me  ;  they  made  me  discontented  without  knowing  why  ; 
they  filled  me  with  disgust,  a  disgust  which  my  respect  for 
her  good  qualities  could  not  overcome. 

And  then  our  life,  how  dreary  !  The  rising  in  the  cold, 
gray  dawn  to  prepare  the  breakfast  of  corn-dodgers  and 
bacon  for  my  father  and  his  men, — the  spreading  the  table- 
cloth, stained  with  the  soil-spots  of  yesterday's  meal,  —  the 
putting  upon  it  the  ugly  unmatched  crockery,  —  the  strag- 
gling in  of  the  unwashed,  uncombed  men  in  their  coarse 
working-clothes,  redolent  of  the  week's  unwholesome  toil,  — 
their  washings,  combings,  and  low  talk  close  by  my  side, 
—  the  varied  uses  to  which  our  household  utensils  were 
put,  —  the  dipping  of  dirty  knives  into  the  salt  and  of  dirty 
fingers  into  the  meat-dish,  —  all  filled  me  then,  and  fill  me 
now,  with  loathing. 

There  was  a  relief  when  the  men  left  the  house ;  but 
then  came  the  dreary  "slicking-up,"  almost  more  disgust- 
ing, in  its  false,  superficial  show  of  cleanliness,  than  had 
been  the  open  carelessness  of  the  workmen. 

But  there  was  no  time  for  rest ;  my  step-mother's  sharp, 
high-pitched  voice  was  heard  calling,  "  Janet ! "  and  I  fol- 
lowed her  to  the  garden  to  dig  the  potatoes  from  the  hills 
or  to  the  cornfield  to  pull  and  husk  the  three  dozen  ears  of 
corn  which  made  our  chief  dish  at  dinner.  Then  came  the 
week's  washing,  the  apple-peeling,  the  pork-salting,  work 
varied  only  with  the  varying  season,  until  the  blowing  of 
the  horn  at  twelve  brought  back  the  men  to  dinner,  after 
which  came  again  the  clearing  up,  again  the  day's  task,  and 
again  the  supper/ 

I  often  thought  that  the  men  around  us  were  always  more 
cheerful  and  merry  than  the  women.  They  worked  as  hard, 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.          405 

they  endured  as  many  hardships,  but  they  had,  certainly, 
more  pleasures.  There  was  the  evening  lounge  by  the 
fire  in  winter,  the  sitting  on  the  fence  or  at  the  door-step 
in  summer,  when,  pipe  or  cigar  in  mouth,  knife  and  whit- 
tling-stick  in  hand,  jest  and  gibe  would  pass  round  among 
them,  and  the  boisterous  laugh  would  go  up,  reaching  me, 
as  I  lay,  tired  out,  on  my  little  cot,  or  leaned  disconsolate 
at  my  garret-window,  looking  with  longing  eyes  far  out  into 
the  darkness  of  the  woods.  No  such  gatherings-together  of 
the  women  did  I  ever  see.  If  one  of  our  neighbors  dragged 
her  weary  steps  to  our  kitchen,  and  sat  herself  down,  baby 
in  lap,  on  the  upturned  tub  or  flag-bottomed  chair  that  I 
dusted  off  with  my  apron,  it  was  to  commence  the  querulous 
complaint  of  the  last  week's  chill  or  the  heavy  washing  of  the 
day  before,  the  ailing  baby,  or  the  troublesome  child,  all  told 
in  the  same  whining  voice.  Even  the  choice  bit  of  gossip 
which  roused  us  at  rare  intervals  always  had  its  dark  side, 
on  which  these  poor  women  dwelt  with  a  perverse  pleasure. 

In  short,  life  was  too  hard  for  them ;  it  brought  its  con- 
stant cares  without  any  alleviating  pleasures.  Their  homes 
were  only  places  of  monotonous  labor,  —  their  husbands 
so  many  hard  taskmasters,  who  exacted  from  them  more 
than  their  strength  could  give,  —  their  children,  who  should 
have  been  the  delight  of  their  mothers'  hearts,  so  many 
additional  burdens,  the  bearing  and  nursing  of  which  broke 
down  their  poor  remaining  health  ;  the  glorious  and  lavish 
Nature  in  which  they  lived  only  brought  to  them  added 
labor,  and  shut  them  out  from  the  few  social  enjoyments 
that  they  knew  of. 

I  was  old  enough  to  feel  all  this,  —  not  to  reason  on  it  as 
I  can  now,  but  to  rebel  against  it  with  all  the  violence  of  a 
vehement  nature  which  feels  its  strength  only  in  the  injuries 
it  inflicts  upon  itself  in  its  useless  struggles  for  freedom. 
Bitter  tears  did  I  shed  sometimes,  as  I  lay  with  my  head 
on  my  arms,  leaning  on  that  narrow  window-sill,  —  tears  of 
passionate  regret  that  I  was  not  a  boy,  a  man,  that  I  might, 
by  the  very  force  of  my  right  arm,  hew  my  way  out  of  that 


406  A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

encircling  forest  into  the  world  of  which  I  dreamed,— .tears, 
too,  that,  being  as  I  was,  only  an  ugly,  ignorant  girl,  I  could 
not  be  allowed  to  care  only  for  myself,  and  dream  away  my 
life  in  this  same  forest,  which  charmed  me  while  it  hemmed 
me  in.  My  rude,  chaotic  nature  had  something  of  force  in 
it,  strength  which  I  knew  would  stand  me  in  good  stead, 
could  I  ever  find  an  outlet  for  it ;  it  had  also  a  power  of 
enjoyment,  keen,  vivid,  could  I  ever  get  leave  to  enjoy. 

At  length  came  the  opening,  the  glimpse  of  sunlight.  I 
remember,  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday,  that  afternoon  which 
first  showed  to  my  physical  sight  something  of  that  full  life 
of  which  my  imagination  had  framed  a  rude,  faint  sketch. 
I  was  standing  at  the  end  of  the  meadow,  just  where  the 
rails  had  been  thrown  down  for  the  cows,  when,  looking  up 
the  path  that  led  through  the  wood  by  the  river,  I  saw,  almost 
at  my  side,  a  man  on  horseback.  He  stopped,  and,  half  rais- 
ing his  hat,  a  motion  I  had  never  seen  before,  said,  — 

u  Is  this  Squire  Boarders 's  place  ?  " 

I  pushed  back  my  sun-bonnet,  and  looked  up  at  him.  I 
see .  him  now  as  I  saw  him  then ;  for  my  quick,  startled 
glance  took  in  the  whole  face  and  figure,  which  daguerro- 
typed  themselves  on  my  memory.  A  frank,  open  face,  with 
well-cut  and  well-defined  features  and  large  hazel  eyes,  set 
off  by  curling  brown  hair,  was  smiling  down  upon  me,  and, 
throwing  himself  from  his  horse,  a  young  man  of  about 
five-and-twenty  stood  beside  me.  He  had  to  repeat  his 
question  before  I  gained  presence  of  mind  enough  to  an- 
swer him. 

"  Is  this  Squire  Boarders's  house,  and  do  you  think  I 
could  get  a  night's  lodging  here  ?  " 

It  was  no  unusual  thing  for  us  to  give  a  night's  lodging  to 
the  boatmen  from  the  river,  or  to  the  farmers  from  the  back- 
country,  as  they  passed  to  or  from  Catlettsburg ;  but  what 
accommodation  had  we  for  such  a  guest  as  here  presented  ? 
I  walked  before  him  up  the  path  to  the  house,  and,  shyly 
pointing  to  my  step-mother,  who  stood  on  the  porch,  said,  — 

"  That 's  Mass  Boarders  ;  you  can  ask  her." 


A  Half-Life  and  Half  a  Life.  407 

And  then,  before  he  had  time  to  answer,  I  fled  in  an 
agony  of  bashfulness  to  my  refuge  under  the  water-maple 
behind  the  house.  I  lingered  there  as  long  as  I  dared,  — 
longer,  indeed,  than  I  had  any  right  to  linger,  for  I  heard 
my  mother's  voice  crying,  "Janet!  "and  I  well  knew  that 
there  was  nobody  but  myself  to  mix  the  corn-cake,  spread 
the  table,  or  run  the  dozen  errands  that  would  be  needed.  I 
slipped  in  by  the  back-door,  and,  escaping  my  step-mother's 
peevish  complaints,  passed  into  the  little  closet  which  served 
us  for  pantry,  and,  scooping  up  the  meal,  began  diligently 
to  mix  it. 

The  window  by  which  I  stood  opened  on  the  porch.  My 
father  and  his  men  had  come  in,  and,  tipping  their  chairs 
against  the  wall,  or  mounted  on  the  porch-railing,  were 
smoking  their  cigars,  laughing,  joking,  talking,  —  and  there 
in  the  midst  of  them  sat  the  stranger,  smoking  too,  and 
joining  in  their  talk  with  an  easy  earnestness  that  seemed 
to  win  them  at  once.  Our  country-people  do  not  spare  their 
questions.  My  father  took  the  lead,  the  men  throwing  in  a 
remark  now  and  then. 

"  I  calculate  you  have  never  been  in  these  parts  before  ?  " 

"  No,  never.     You  have  a  beautiful  country  here." 

"  The  country  's  well  enough,  if  we  could  clear  off  some 
of  them  trees  that  stop  a  man  every  way  he  turns.  Did 
you  come  up  from  Lowiza  to-day?" 

"  No  ;  I  have  only  ridden  from  the  mouth  of  Blackberry, 
I  believe  you  call  it.  I  have  left  a  boat  and  crew  there, 
who  will  be  up  in  the  morning." 

"  What  truck  have  you  got  on  your  boat  ?  " 

"  Lumber  and  so  forth,  and  plenty  of  tools  of  one  sort  or 
other." 

"  Damn  me  if  I  don't  believe  you  're  the  man  who  is 
coming  up  here  to  open  the  coal  mines  on  Burgess's  land  !  " 
And  the  whole  crowd  gathered  round  him. 

He  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"  Yes,  I  am  coming  to  live  among  you.  I  hope  you  '11 
give  me  a  welcome." 


408  A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

There  was  a  cheery  sound  of  welcome  from  the  men,  but 
my  father  shook  his  head. 

"  We  don't  like  no  new-fangled  notions,  noways,  up  here, 
and  I  '11  not  say  that  I  'm  glad  you  're  bringing  them  in ; 
but,  at  any  rate,  you  're  welcome  here  to-night" 

The  young  man  held  out  his  hand. 

"  We  are  to  be  close  neighbors,  Squire  Boarders,  and  I 
hope  we  shall  be  good  friends ;  b'ut  I  ought  to  tell  you  all 
about  myself.  Mr.  Burgess's  land  has  been  bought  by  a 
company,  who  intend  to  open  the  coal  mines,  as  you  know 
and  I  am  sent  up  here  as  their  agent,  to  make  ready  for  the 
miners  and  the  workmen.  We  shall  clear  away  a  little,  and 
put  up  some  rough  shanties,  to  make  our  men  comfortable 
before  we  go  to  work.  We  shall  bring  a  new  set  of  people 
among  you,  those  Scotch  and  Welsh  miners  ;  but  I  believe 
they  are  a  peaceable  set,  and  we  '11  try  to  be  friendly  with 
each  other." 

The  frank  speech  and  the  free,  open  face  seemed  to  mol- 
lify my  father. 

"  And  how  do  you  call  yourself,  stranger,  when  you  are 
at  home  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  George  Hammond." 

"  Well,  as  I  was  telling  you,  you  're  welcome  here  to- 
night, and  I  don't  know  as  I  've  anything  against  your  set- 
tling over  the  river  on  Burgess's  land.  The  people  round 
here  have  been  telling  me  yonr  coming  will  be  a  good  thing 
for  us  farmers,  because  you  '11  bring  us  a  market  for  our 
corn  and  potatoes  ;  but  I  don't  see  no  use  of  raising  more 
corn  than  we  want  for  ourselves.  We  have  enough  selling 
to  do  with  our  lumber,  and  you  '11  be  thinning  out  the  trees. 
—  But  there 's  my  old  woman  's  got  her  supper  ready." 

I  listened  as  I  waited  on  the  table.  The  talk  varied  from 
farming  to  mining  and  the  state  of  the  river,  merging  at  last 
into  the  politics  of  the  country,  and  through  the  whole  of  it 
I  watched  the  stranger  :  noticed  how  different  was  his  lan- 
guage from  anything  I  had  ever  heard  before  ;  marked  the 
clear  tones  of  his  voice,  and  the  distinctness  of  his  utter- 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.          409 

ance,  contrasting  with  the  heavy,  thick  gutturals,  the  run- 
ning of  words  into  each  other,  the  slovenly  drawl  of  my 
father  and  his  men  ;  watched  his  manner  of  eating,  his  neat 
disposition  of  his  food  on  his  plate ;  saw  him  move  his  chair 
back  with  a  slight  expression  of  annoyance,  unmarked  by 
any  one  else,  as  Will  Foushee  spit  on  the  floor  beside  him. 
All  this  I  observed,  in  a  mood  half  envious,  half  sullen,  — 
a  mood  which  pursued  me  that  night  into  my  little  attic,  as 
I  peevishly  questioned  with  myself  wherein  lay  the  differ- 
ence between  us. 

"  Why  is  this  man  any  better  than  Will  Foushee  or  Ned 
Burgess  ?  He  is  no  stronger  nor  better  able  to  do  a  day's 
work.  Why  am  I  afraid  of  him,  when  I  don't  care  an  acorn 
for  the  others  ?  Why  do  my  father  and  the  men  listen  to 
him  and  crowd  round  him  ?  What  makes  him  stand  among 
them  as  if  he  did  not  belong  to  them,  even  when  he  talks  of 
what  they  know  better  than  he  ?  There  is  not  a  man  round 
Sandy  that  could  make  me  feel  as  ashamed  as  that  gentleman 
did  when  he  spoke  to  me  this  afternoon.  Is  it  because  he 
is  a  gentleman  ?  And  sullenly  I  resolved  that  I  would  be 
put  down  by  no  airs.  I  was  as  good  as  he,  and  would  show 
him  to-morrow  morning  that  I  felt  so.  Then  came  the  bit- 
ter acknowledgment.  "  I  am  not  as  good  as  he  is.  I  am 
a  stupid,  ugly  girl,  who  knows  nothing  but  hateful  house- 
work and  a  little  of  the  fields  and  trees  ;  and  he,  —  I  sup- 
pose he  has  been  to  school,  and  read  plenty  of  books,  and 
lived  among  quality."  And  I  cried  myself  to  sleep  before 
I  had  made  up  my  mind  fully  to  acknowledge  his  supe- 
riority. 

It  was  one  of  my  greatest  pleasures  to  get  up  early.  Our 
people  were  not  early  risers,  except  when  work  pressed 
upon  them,  and  I  often  secured  my  only  leisure  hour  for 
the  day  by  stealing  down  the  staircase,  out  into  the  woods, 
by  early  sunrise,  when,  wrapped  in  an  old  shawl,  and  shel- 
tered from  the  dew  by  climbing  into  the  lower  branches  of 
my  pet  maple,  I  would  watch  the  fog  reaching  up  the  oppo- 
site hills,  putting  forth  as  it  were  an  arm,  by  which,  stretched 
18 


410  A  Half-Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

far  out  over  the  trees,  it  seemed  to  lift  itself  from  the  valley, 
—  or,  perhaps  carrying  with  me  one  of  the  few  books  which 
made  my  library,  I  would  spell  out  the  sentences  and  at- 
tempt to  extract  their  meaning. 

They  were  a  strange  medley,  my  books  ;  sonle  belonging 
to  my  step-mother,  and  others  borrowed  or  begged  from  the 
neighbors,  or  brought  to  me  by  the  men,  with  whom  I  was 
a  favorite,  and  who  knew  my  passion  for  reading.  My 
mother's  books  were  mostly  religious  :  a  life  of  Brainerd, 
the  missionary,  whose  adventures  roused  within  me  a  gleam 
of  religious  enthusiasm  ;  some  sermons  of  the  leading  Meth- 
odist clergy,  which,  to  her  horror,  I  pronounced  stupid  ;  and 
a  torn  copy  of  the  "  Imitation  of  Christ,"  a  book  which  she 
threatened  to  take  from  me,  because  she  believed  it  had 
something  to  do  with  the  Papists,  but  to  which,  for  that 
very  reason,  I  clung  with  a  tenacity  and  read  with  an  ear- 
nestness which  brought  at  last  its  own  beautiful  fruits. 
Then,  there  was  the  "  Scottish  Chiefs,"  a  treasure-house 
of  delight  to  me,  —  two  or  three  trashy  novels,  given  me  by 
Tom  Salyers,  of  which  my  mother  knew  nothing,  —  and 
(the  only  poetry  I  had  ever  seen)  a  song-book,  which  had, 
scattered  among  its  vulgarisms  and  puerilities,  some  gems 
of  Burns  and  Moore.  These,  my  natural,  unvitiated  taste 
had  singled  out,  and  I  would  croon  them  over  to  myself,  set 
them  to  a  tune  of  my  own  composing,  and  half  sing,  half 
chant  them,  when  at  work  out-of-doors,  till  my  mother  de- 
clared I  was  going  crazy. 

This  morning  I  did  not  read.  I  sat  looking  down  into 
the  water  from  my  perch,  carrying  on  the  inward  discussion 
of  the  night  before,  and  wishing  that  breakfast-time  were 
come,  that  I  might  try  my  strength  and  show  that  I  was 
not  to  be  put  down  by  any  assumption  of  superiority,  when 
suddenly  a  voice  near  me  made  me  start  so  that  I  almost 
lost  my  balance.  Mr.  Hammond  was  standing  beneath. 
He  laughed,  and  held  out  his  hand  to  help  me  down  ;  but 
I  sprang  past  him  and  was  on  my  way  to  the  house,  when 
suddenly  my  brave  -resolutions  came  back  to  my  mind,  and 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.          411 

I  stood  still  with  a  feeling  of  defiance.  I  wondered  what 
he  would  dare  to  say.  Would  he  tell  me  how  stupid  he 
thought  us  all,  how  like  the  very  pigs  we  lived  ?  or  would 
he  describe  his  own  grand  house  and  the  great  places  he 
had  seen  ?  I  scowled  up  sullenly. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  where  to  find  a  towel,  that  I  may  wash 
my  face  here  by  the  river-side  ?  " 

I  laughed  aloud,  and  with  that  laugh  fled  my  sullenness. 
He  looked  a  little  puzzled,  but  went  on,  — 

"  I  went  to  bed  so  early  that  I  cannot  sleep  any  longer ; 
and  if  I  could  only  find  some  way  of  getting  across  the 
river,  I  could  get  things  under  way  a  little  before  my  men 
come  up." 

There  were  ways,  then,  in  which  I  could  help  him, — he 
was  not  so  immeasurably  above  me,  —  and  down  went  my 
defiant  spirit.  The  towel,  a  crash  roller,  luckily  clean,  was 
brought  at  once,  and  gathering  courage  as  I  stood  by  and 
saw  him  finish  his  washing,  I  said,  — 

"  I  can  scull  you  over  the  river  in  a  few  minutes,  if  you 
will  go  in  our  skiff." 

"  You  ?  can  you  manage  that  shell  of  a  thing  ?  will  youi 
father  let  you  take  it,  Miss  Boarders  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Janet  Rainsford,  and  Squire  Boarders  is 
not  my  father,"  said  I,  some  of  my  sullenness  returning. 

"  If  you  will  take  me,  Janet,"  said  he,  with  the  frank, 
open-hearted  tone  which  had  won  my  step-father  the  night 
before,  —  a  tone  before  which  my  sullenness  melted. 

I  jumped  in,  and,  letting  him  pass  me  before  I  threw  off 
the  rope,  sculled  the  little  dug-out  into  the  middle  of  the 
river.  No  boatman  on  the  Sandy  was  more  skilful  than  I 
in  the  management  of  the  little  vessel,  for  in  it  most  of  my 
leisure  time  had  been  passed  for  the  last  year  or  two.  My 
step-mother  had  scolded,  my  father  grumbled,  and  the  farm- 
ers' wives  and  daughters  had  shaken  their  heads  and  "  al- 
lowed that  Janet  Rainsford  would  come  to  no  good,  if  she 
was  let  fool  about  here  and  there,  like  a  boy."  But  on  that 
point  I  was  incorrigible  ;  the  boat  was  my  one  escape  from 


412  A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

my  daily  drudgery,  and  late  at  night  and  early  in  the  morn- 
ing I  went  up  and  down  among  the  shoals  and  bars,  under 
the  trees  and  over  the  ripples,  till  every  turn  of  the  current 
was  familiar  to  me.  I  knew  all  the  boatmen,  too,  up  and 
down  the  river,  would  pull  along-side  their  rafts  or  pushing- 
boats,  and  get  from  them  a  slice  of  their  corn-bread  or  a 
cup  of  coffee,  or  at  least  a  pleasant  word  or  jest.  And  none 
but  pleasant  words  did  I  ever  receive  from  the  rough,  but 
honorable  men  whom  I  met.  They  respected,  as  the  rough- 
est men  will  always  do,  my  lonely  girlhood,  and  felt  a  sort 
of  pride  in  the  daring,  adventurous  spirit  that  I  showed. 

My  knowledge  of  the  river  stood  Mr.  Hammond  in  good 
stead  that  morning,  as  soon  as  I  understood  that  he  was 
looking  for  a  place  where  his  men  could  land  easily.  It  was 
only  to  sweep  round  a  small  bluff  that  jutted  into  the  river, 
and  carry  the  skiff  into  the  mouth  of  Nat's  Creek,  where 
the  bank  sloped  gradually  down  to  the  water  from  a  level 
bit  of  meadow-land  that  extended  back  some  rods  before 
the  hills  began  to  rise.  Mr.  Hammond  leaped  out 

"  The  very  place,  —  and  here,  on  this  point  shall  be  my 
saw-mill.  I  '11  run  the  road  through  here  and  up  the  creek 
to  the  mining-ground,  and  build  my  store  under  the  ledge 
there,  and  my  shanties  on  each  side  of  the  road." 

I  caught  his  enthusiasm,  and  my  shyness  all  gone,  I 
found  myself  listening  and  suggesting ;  more  than  that,  I 
found  my  suggestions  attended  to.  I  knew  the  river  well ; 
I  knew  what  points  of  land  would  be  overflowed  in  the 
June  rise  ;  I  knew  how  far  the  backwater  would  reach  up 
the  creek ;  I  knew  the  least  obstructed  paths  through  the 
woods ;  I  could  even  tell  where  the  most  available  timber 
was  to  be  found.  I  felt,  too,  that  my  knowledge  was  appre- 
ciated. George  Hammond  had  that  one  best  gift  that  be- 
longs to  all  successful  leaders,  whether  of  armies,  colonies, 
or  bands  of  miners ;  he  recognized  merit  when  he  saw  it. 
From  that  morning  a  feeling  of  self-respect  dawned  upon 
me,  I  was  not  so  altogether  ignorant  as  I  had  thought  my- 
self, I  had  some  available  knowledge ;  and  with  that  feeling 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.  413 

came  the  determination  to  raise  myself  out. of  that  slough 
of  despond  into  which  I  had  fallen  the  night  before. 

From  that  time  a  sort  of  friendship  sprang  up  between 
George  Hammond  and  myself.  Every  morning  I  rowed 
him  across  the  river,  and,  in  the  early  morning  light,  before 
the  workmen  were  out  of  bed,  he  talked  over,  partly  to  him- 
self and  partly  to  me,  his  plans  for  the  day  and  his  vexations 
of  the  day  before,  until  I  began  to  offer  advice  and  make 
suggestions,  which  made  him  laughingly  call  me  his  little 
counsellor. 

Then  in  the  evenings  (he  slept  at  my  father's)  he  would 
pick  up  my  books  and  amuse  himself  with  talking  to  me 
about  them,  laugh  at  my  crude  enthusiasms,  clear  up  some 
difficult  passage,  prune  away  remorselessly  the  trash  that 
had  crept  into  my  little  collection,  until,  one  day,  returning, 
from  Cincinnati,  where  business  had  called  him,  he  brought 
with  him  a  store  of  books  inexhaustible  to  my  inexperi- 
enced eyes,  and  declared  himself  my  teacher  for  the  winter. 

"  Never  mind  Janet's  knitting  and  mending,  Mrs.  Board- 
ers," said  he,  in  reply  to  my  mother's  complaints  ;  "  she  is  a 
smart  girl,  and  may  be  a  schoolmistress  yet,  and  earn  more 
money  than  any  women  on  Sandy." 

"  But  I  am  afraid,"  my  step-mother  answered,  "-that  the 
books  she  reads  are  not  godly,  and  have  no  grace  in  them. 
They  look  to  me  like  players'  trash.  I  've  tried  to  do  my 
duty  to  Janet,"  she  continued,  plaintively;  "but -I  hope  the 
Lord  won't  hold  me  accountable  for  her  headstrong  ways." 

Meantime,  as  I  read  in  one  of  my  books,  and  repeated  to 
myself  over  and  over  again  in  my  fulness  of  content,  — 

"  How  happily  the  days 
Of  Thalaba  went  by  I " 

How  rapidly  fled  that  winter,  and  how  soon  came  the  spring, 
that  would  bring  me,  I  thought,  new  hopes,  new  interests, 
new  companions  ! 

How  changed  a  scene  did  I  look  upon,  that  bright  April 
morning,  when  I  went  over  the  river  to  see  that  all  was  in 


414  A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

readiness  for  the  boats  from  below  which  were  to  bring 
Esther  Hammond  to  her  new  home  !  She  was  to  keep  her 
brother's  house  ;  and  furniture,  books,  and  pictures,  such  as 
I  had  never  dreamed  of,  had  been  sent  up  by  the  last-re- 
turning boatmen,  all  of  which  I  had  helped  Mr.  Hammond 
to  arrange  in  the  little  two-story  cottage  which  stood  on  the 
first  rise  of  the  hill  behind  the  store. 

A  little  plat  of  ground  was  hedged  jn  with  young  Osage- 
orange  shrubs,  and  within  it  one  of  the  miners,  who  had 
formerly  been  an  under-gardener  in  a  great  house  in  Scot- 
land, had  already  prepared  some  flower-beds  and  sodded 
carefully  the  little  lawn,  laying  down  the  walks  with  bright- 
colored  tan,  which  contrasted  pleasantly  with  the  lively 
green  of  the  grass.  From  the  gate  one  might  look  up  and 
.  down  the  road,  bordered  on  one  side  by  the  trees  that  hung 
over  the  river,  and  on  the  other  by  the  miners'  houses,  one- 
story  cottages,  each  with  its  small  enclosure,  and  showing 
every  degree  of  cultivation,  from  the  neat  vegetable-patch 
and  whitewashed  porch  of  the  Scotch  families  to  the  neg- 
lected waste  ground  and  slovenly  potato-patch  of  the  Irish- 
men. There  were  some  Sandians  among  the  hands,  but 
they  never  could  be  made  to  take  one  of  the  houses  pre- 
pared for  the  miners.  They  lived  back  on  the  creek,  gen- 
erally on  their  own  lands,  raised  their  corn  and  tobacco,  cut 
their  lumber,  and  hunted  or  rode  the  country,  taking  jobs 
only  when  they  felt  so  inclined,  but  showing  themselves 
fully  able  to  compete  with  the  best  hands  both  in  skill  and 
in  endurance,  when  they  were  willing  to  work. 

On  the  side  of  the  hill  across  the  creek  could  be  seen  the 
entrance  to  the  mines,  and  down  that  hill  were  passing  con- 
stantly the  cars,  loaded  with  earth  and  stone  taken  from  the 
tunnel,  which  fell  with  a  thundering  sound  into  the  valley 
beneath.  Below  me  was  the  store,  gay  with  its  multifarious 
goods,  which  supplied  all  the  needs  of  the  miners  and  their 
wives,  from  the  garden-tools  and  seeds  for  the  afternoon- 
work  to  the  gay-colored  dresses  for  the  Sunday  leisure,  — 
where,  too,  on  Saturday  night,  whiskey  was  to  be  had  in 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.  415 

exchange  for  the  scrip  in  which  their  wages  were  paid,  and 
where,  sometimes,  the  noise  waxed  fast  and  furious,  till  Mr. 
Hammond  would  cut  off  the  supply  of  liquor,  as  the  readi- 
est means  of  stilling  the  tumult 

On  this  side  the  river  all  was  changed.  But  as  I  looked 
that  morning  across  the  stream  towards  my  step-father's 
farm,  my  own  home,  everything  there  lay  as  wild  and  unim- 
proved as  I  had  known  it  since  the  first  day  my  mother 
brought  me  there,  comfortless  and  disorderly  as  it  was  when, 
child  as  I  was,  I  could  remember  the  tears  of  fatigue  and 
discouragement  which  she  dropped  upon  my  face  as  she 
put  me  for  the  first  time  into  my  little  crib  ;  but  there,  too, 
were  still  (and  my  heart  exulted  as  I  saw  them)  the  glorious 
water-maples,  the  giant  sycamores,  and  the  bright-colored 
chestnut-trees,  which  I  had  known  and  loved  so  long. 
Would  Miss  Hammond  see  how  beautiful  they  were  ?  would 
she  praise  them  as  her  brother  had  done  ?  would  she  listen 
as  kindly  to  my  rhapsodies  about  them  ?  and  would  she  say, 
as  he  had  said,  that  I  was  a  poet  by  nature,  with  a  poet's 
quick  appreciation  of  beauty  and  the  poet's  gift  of  enthusias- 
tic expression  ?  I  could  not  tell  whether  Esther  Hammond 
would  be  to  me  the  friend  her  brother  had  been,  with  the 
added  blessing,  that,  being  a  woman,  I  could  go  freely  to 
her  with  my  deficiencies  in  sure  dependence  upon  her  aid 
and  sympathy,  —  or  if  she  would  come  to  stand  between  me 
and  him,  to  take  away  from  me  my  friend  and  teacher.  Time 
alone  would  show  ;  and  meanwhile  I  must  be  busy  with  my 
preparations,  for  the  boats  were  expected  at  noon,  and  Mr. 
Hammond,  who  had  ridden  down  to  Louisa  to  meet  them, 
had  said  that  he  depended  upon  me  to  have  things  cheerful 
and  in  order  when  they  arrived. 

Two  hours'  hard  work  saw  everything  in  its  place,  the 
furniture  arranged  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  but  wanting,  as 
I  sorely  felt,  the  touch  of  a  mistress's  hand  to  give  it  a 
home-like  look.  I  had  done  my  best,  but  what  did  I  know 
of  the  arrangement  of  a  lady's  house  ?  I  hardly  knew  the 
use  of  half  the  things  I  touched.  But  I  woiild  not  let  my 


416  A  Half-Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

old  spirit  of  discontent  creep  over  me  now ;  so,  betaking 
myself  to  the  woods,  which  were  full  of  the  loveliest  spring 
flowers,  I  brought  back  such  a  profusion  of  violets,  spring- 
beauties,  and  white  bloodroot-blossoms,  that  the  whole  room 
was  brightened  with  their  beauty,  while  their  faint,  delicate 
perfume  filled  the  air. 

*'  Surely  these  must  please  her,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  put 
the  last  saucerful  on  the  table,  and  stepped  back  to  see  the 
result  of  my  work. 

"They  certainly  will,  Janet,"  said  George  Hammond,  who 
had  entered  behind  me.  "  How  well  you  have  worked,  and 
how  pleasant  everything  looks  !  Esther  will  be  so  much 
obliged  to  you.  She  is  just  below,  in  the  boat.  Will  you 
not  come  with  me  and  help  her  up  the  bank  ?  " 

But  I  hung  back,  bashful  and  frightened,  while  he  called 
some  of  the  men  to  his  assistance,  and,  hurrying  down  to 
the  river,  landed  the  boat,  and  was  presently  seen  walking 
toward  the  house  with  a  lady  leaning  upon  his  arm.  I  saw 
her  from  the  window.  A  tall,  dignified  woman,  with  a  face, 
—  yes,  beautiful,  certainly,  for  there  were  the  regular  feat- 
ures, the  dark  eyes,  with  their  straight  brows,  the  heavy, 
dark  hair,  parted  over  the  fair,  smooth  forehead,  but  so 
quiet,  so  cold,  so  almost  haughty,  that  my  heart  stood  still 
with  an  undefined  alarm. 

She  came  in  and  sat  down  in  one  of  the  chairs  without 
taking  the  least  notice  of  me.  Mr.  Hammond  spoke,  — 

"  This  is  Janet  Rainsford,  my  little  friend  that  I  told  you 
of,  Esther.  I  hope  you  will  be  as  good  friends  as  we  have 
been.  She  will  show  you  every  beautiful  place  around  the 
country,  and  make  you  acquainted  with  the  people,  too." 

Miss  Hammond  looked  at  me  with  a  steadiness  of  gaze 
under  which  my  eyes  sank. 

"  I  shall  not  trouble  the  young  person  much,  since  I  shall 
only  walk  when  you  can  go  with  me  ;  and  as  for  the  people, 
it  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  know  them,  I  suppose." 

George  Hammond  bit  his  lip. 

"  Janet  has  taken  great  pains  to  put  everything  in  order 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.          417 

for  us  here.  I  should  hardly  know  the  room,  it  is  so  im- 
proved since  I  left  it  this  morning." 

"She  is  very  kind,"  said  his  sister,  languidly;  "but, 
George,  how  horribly  this  furniture  is  arranged,  —  the  sofa 
across  the  window,  the  centre-table  in  the  corner  !  " 

"  O,  you  will  have  plenty  of  time  to  arrange  it,  Esther. 
Come,  let  me  show  you  your  own  room  ;  you  will  want  to 
rest  while  your  Dutch  girl  —  what 's  her  name  ?  Catrine  ? 
—  gets  us  something  to  eat." 

Miss  Hammond  followed  her  brother  to  her  room,  while, 
mortified  and  angry  with  her,  with  myself,  I  escaped  from 
the  house,  jumped  into  my  skiff,  and  hardly  stopped  to 
breathe  till  I  had  reached  my  own  little  garret.  I  flung  my- 
self on  my  bed,  and  burst  into  bitter  tears  of  resentment 
and  despair.  So,  after  all  my  pains,  after  my  endeavors  to 
improve  myself,  after  all  I  had  done,  I  was  not  worth  the 
notice  of  a  real  lady.  I  supposed  I  was  an  uncouth,  awk- 
ward girl,  disagreeable  enough  to  her  ;  she  would  not  want 
to  see  me  ne^r  her.  Alltl  had  done  was  miserable  ;  it 
would  have  been  better  to  let  things  alone.  I  never  would 
go  near  her  again,  —  that  was  certain,  —  she  should  not  be 
troubled  by  me  ;  —  and  my  tears  fell  hot  and  fast  upon  my 
pillow.  Then  came  my  old  sullenness.  Why  was  she  any 
better  than  I  ?  Her  brother  thought  me  worth  talking  to  ; 
could  she  not  find  me  worthy  of  at  least  a  kind  look  ?  Per- 
haps she  knew  more  than  I  did  of  books  :  but  what  of  that  ? 
She  had  not  half  the  useful  knowledge  wherewith  to  make 
her  way  here  in  the  wood's.  And  what  right  had  she  to 
bring  her  haughty  looks  and  proud  ways  here  among  our 
people  ?  My  sullenness  gave  way  before  my  bitter  disap- 
pointment and  my  offended  pride.  I  was  only  a  child  of 
sixteen,  sensitive  and  distrustful  of  myself,  and  her  cold 
looks  and  colder  words  had  keenly  wounded  me. 

A  week  passed,  in  which  I  gave  myself  most  earnestly  to 
the  household  tasks,  going  through  them  with  dogged  per- 
tinacity, arid  accomplishing  an  amount  of  work  which  made 
my  step-mother  declare  that  Janet  was  coming  back  to  her 
18*  AA 


41 8  A  Half-Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

senses  after  all.  It  was  only  my  effort  to  forget  my  disap- 
pointment. 

On  the  Saturday  evening  when  I  sat  tired  out  with  my 
exertions,  Mr.  Hammond  came  up  the  path.  How  my 
heart  leaped  at  seeing  him  !  How  good  he  was  to  come  ! 
His  sister  had  not  taught  him  to  despise  me.  But  when 
he  asked  me  to  come  over  the  next  day,  and  see  what  he 
had  done  to  his  house  and  garden,  the  demon  of  sullen 
pride  took  possession  of  me  again.  I  would  not  go.  I  had 
too  much  to  do  ;  my  mother  would  want  me  to  get  the  din- 
ner. In  short,  I  could  not  go.  He  bore  it  good-naturedly, 
though  I  think  he  understood  it,  and,  leaving  with  me  a 
package  of  books  which  he  had  promised  me,  said  he  must 
go,  as  Esther  would  be  waiting  tea  for  him. 

Many  another  endeavor  did  George  Hammond  make  to 
bring  his  sister  and  myself  together,  but  the  first  impres- 
sion had  been  too  strong  for  me,  and  Miss  Hammond  made 
no  effort  to 'remove  it.  I  do  not  believe  it  ever  crossed  her 
mind  to  try  to  do  so.  Little  \vfes  it  to  her, whether  or  no 
she  made  herself  pleasant  to  a  stupid,  ugly  girl.  She  had 
her  books,  her  light  household  cares,  her  letter-writing,  her 
gardening,  her  walks  and  drives  with  her  brother,  and  she 
felt  and  showed  little  interest  in  anything  else.  Very  fin- 
popular  she  was  among  the  people  around  her,  who  con- 
trasted her  cold  reserve  with  her  brother's  frank  cordiality  ; 
but  she  troubled  herself  not  at  all  about  her  unpopularity. 
For  me,  I  kept  shyly  out  of  her  way,  and  fell  back  into  my 
old  habits. 

I  had  not  lost  my  friend,  Mr.  Hammond.  He  did  not  read 
with  me  regularly  as  before,  but  he  kept  me  supplied  with 
books,  and  the  very  infrequency  of  his  lessons  stimulated 
me  to  redoubled  effort,  that  I  might  surprise  him  by  my 
progress  when  we  met  again.  Then  there  was  scarcely  a 
day  that  some  business  did  not  take  him  past  our  house,  or 
that  I  did  not  meet  him  by  the  river-bank  or  at  the  store. 
Sometimes  he  would  ask  me  to  row  him  down  the  stream 
on  some  errand,  sometimes  he  would  take  me  with  him  in 


A  Half-Life  and  Half  a  Life.  419 

his  rides.  I  was  a  fearless  horsewoman,  and  Miss  Ham- 
mond did  not  ride.  In  all  those  meetings  he  was  frank  and 
kind  as  ever  ;  he  told  me  of  his  plans,  his  annoyances,  his 
projects.  No,  I  had  not  lost  my  friend,  as  I  had  feared, 
and  when  assured  of  this,  I  could  do  without  Miss  Ham- 
mond. 

And  so  the  weeks  glided  into  months,  and  the  months 
into  years,  and  I  was  nineteen  years  old.  Four  years  had 
passed  since  the  morning  when  George  Hammond  first 
awakened  my  self-esteem,  first  gave  me  the  impulse  to  raise 
myself  out  of  my  awkwardness  and  ignorance,  to  make  of 
myself  something  better  than  one  of  the  worn,  depressed, 
dispirited  women  I  saw  around  me.  Had  I  done  anything 
for  myself  ?  I  asked.  I  was  not  educated,  I  had  no  acquire- 
ments, so-called  ;  but  I  had  read,  and  read  well,  some  good 
and  famous  books,  and  I  knew  that  I  had  made  their  con- 
tents my  own.  I  was  richer  for  their  beauties  and  excel- 
lencies. With  my  self-respect  had  come,  too,  a  desire  to 
improve  my  surroundings,. and,  as  far  as  they  lay  under  my 
control,  they  had  been  improved.  Our  household  was  more 
orderly  ;  some  little  attempt  at  neatness  and  decoration  was 
to  be  seen  around  and  in  the  house,  and  my  own  room, 
where  I  had  full  sway,  was  beautiful  in  its  rustic  adornment. 

My  glass,  too,  the  poor  little  three-cornered,  paper-framed 
companion  of  my  girlhood,  showed  me  some  change.  The 
complexion  had  cleared,  the  hair  had  taken  a  decided  brown, 
and  the  angular  figure  had  rounded  and  filled.  It  was  hardly 
a  week  since,  standing  in  -Miss  Hammond's  kitchen  count- 
ing over  with  her  servant-girl  the  basketful  of  fresh  eggs 
which  were  sent  from  our  house  every  week,  I  had  over- 
heard Mr.  Hammond  say  to  his  sister,  — 

"  Really,  Janet  Rainsford  has  improved  so  much  that  she 
.  is  almost  pretty.  Her  brown  hair  tones  so  well  with  her 
quiet  eyes  ;  and  as  to  her  mouth,  it  is  really  lovely,  so  finely 
cut,  and  with  so  much  character  in  it." 

What  was  it  to  me  that  Miss  Hammond's  cold  voice  an- 
swered, — 


420  A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

"  I  think  you  make  a  fool  of  yourself,  George,  and  of  that 
girl,  too,  going  on  as  you  do  about  her.  She  will  be  entirely 
unfitted  for  her  state  of  life,  and  for  the  people  she  must 
live  with." 

Her  words  had  hardly  time  to  chill  my  heart  when  it 
bounded  again,  as  I  turned  hurriedly  away  and  passed 
under  the  window  on  my  way  out,  at  hearing  her  brother's 
answer  :  — 

"  There  is  too  much  in  her  to  be  spoiled.  I  like  her. 
She  has  talent  and  character,  and  I  cannot  understand, 
Esther,  why  you  are  so  prejudiced  against  her." 

There  were  others  besides  Mr.  Hammond  who  thought 
me  improved  and  who  liked  me.  Tom  Salyers  never  let  an 
evening  pass  without  dropping  into  our  house  on  his  way 
home  from  the  store,  where  he  was  a  sort  of  overseer  or 
salesman,  —  never  failed  to  bring  in  its  season  the  earliest 
wild-flower  or  the  freshest  fruit,  —  had  thoroughly  searched 
Catlettsburg  for  books  to  please  me,  —  nay,  had  once  sent 
an  indefinite  order  to  a .  Cincinnati  bookseller  to  put  up 
twenty  dollars'  worth  of  the  best  books  for  a  lady,  which 
order  was  filled  by  a  collection  of  the  Annuals  of  six  years 
back  and  a  few  unsalable  modern  novels.  I  read  them  all 
most  conscientiously  and  gratefully,  and  would  not  listen 
for  a  moment  to  Mr.  Hammond's  jests  about  them :  but,  a 
few  weeks  afterwards,  I  almost  repented  of  my  complai- 
sance, when  Tom  Salyers  took  me  at  an  advantage  while 
rowing  me  down  to  Louisa  one  afternoon,  and,  seeing  a 
long  stretch  of  river  before  him  without  shoal  or  sand-bar, 
leisurely  laid  up  his  oars,  and,  letting  the  boat  float  with 
the  stream,  asked  me,  abruptly,  to  marry  him,  and  go  with 
him  up  into  the  country  to  a  new  place  which  he  meant  to 
clear  an4  farm. 

I  laughed  at  him  at  first,  but  he  persisted  till  I  was  forced 
to  believe  him  in  earnest ;  and  then  I  told  him  how  foolish 
he  was  to  fancy  an  ugly,  sallow-looking  girl  like  me,  who 
had  no  father  nor  mother^  when  he  might  take  one  of  John 
Mills's  rosy  daughters,  or  go  down  to  Catlettsburg  and  get 


A  Half-Life  and  Half  a  Life.          421 

somebody  whose  father  would  give  him  a  farm  already 
cleared. 

"  You  are  laughing  at  me,  Janet,"  he  said.  "  I  know  I 
am  not  smart  enough  for  you,  nor  hardly  fit  to  keep  com- 
pany with  you,  now  that  Hammond  has  taught  you  so  many 
things  that  are  proper  for  a  lady  to  know ;  but  I  love  you 
true,  and  if  you  can  only  fancy  me,,  I  '11  work  so  hard  that 
you  '11  be  able  to  keep  a  hired  girl  and  have  all  your  time 
for  reading  and  going  about  the  woods  as  you  like  to  do. 
And  you  '11  be  in  your  own  house,  instead  of  under  Squire 
Boarders  and  his  sharp-spoken  wife.  Could  n't  you  fancy 
me  after  a  while  ?  I  'd  do  anything  you  said  to  make 
myself  agreeable  and  fit  company  for  you." 

"You  are  very  fit  company  for  me  now,  Tom,"  I  said, 
"  and  you  are  of  a  great  deal  more  use  in  the  world  than  I 
am;  you  know  more  that  is  worth  knowing  than  I  do. 
Only  let  us  be  good  friends,  as  we  have  always  been,  and 
do  not  talk  about  anything  else." 

"  I  will  not  talk  any  more  of  i^now,"  said  he,  "if  so  be 
it  don't  please  you,  and  if  you  '11  promise  never  to  say  any 
more  to  me  about  the  Mills  gals,  or  any  of  them  critters 
down  in  Catlettsburg,  —  I  can't  abide  the  sight  of  them,  — 
and  if  you  '11  let  me  come  and  see  you  all  the  same,  and  row 
you  about  and  take  you  to  the  mill  when  you  want  flour." 

I  held  out  my  hand  to  Tom  with  the  earnest  assurance 
that  I  always  liked  to  see  him  and  talk  to  him,  and  that  there 
was  nobody  whom  I  would  sooner  ask  to  do  me  a  kindness. 

The  poor  fellow  choked  a  little  as  he  thanked  me,  and 
then,  recovering  himself,  rowed  a  few  strokes  in  silence, 
when,  looking  round  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  there  was 
nothing  near  us  but  the  quiet  trees,  he  said  suddenly,  — 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Janet,  I  've  a  great  mind  to  tell  you 
something,  seeing  how  you  're  not  a  woman  that  can't  hold 
her  tongue,  and  then  you  think  so  much  of  Hammond." 

I  started  with  a  quick  sense  of  alarm,  but  Tom  went 
doggedly  on. 

"  You  know  what  a  hard  winter  we  've  had,  with  this  low 


422  A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

water  and  no  January  rise,  and  all  that  ice  in  the  Ohio. 
They  say  they  're  starving  for  coal  down  in  Cincinnati,  and 
here  we  've  no  end  of  it  stacked  up.  Well,  Hammond, 
he  's  had  hard  work  enough  to  keep  the  men  along  through 
the  winter.  Many  another  man  would  have  turned  them 
off,  but  he  would  n't  do  it ;  so  he 's  shinned  here  and 
shinned  there  to  get  money  to  pay  them  their  wages,  and 
they  Ve  had  scrip,  and  we  've  fairly  brought  goods  up  to 
the  store  overland,  on  horseback  and  every  kind  of  way, 
just  for  their  convenience ;  and  now  the  damned  Irish 
rascals,  with  some  of  the  Sandy  boys  for  leaders,  have 
made  up  their  minds  to  strike  for  higher  wages  the  minute 
we  have  a  rise,  just  when  we  '11  need  all  hands  to  get  the 
coal  off,  and  all  those  boats  laying  at  the  mouth,  too.  I 
heard  it  day  before  yesterday,  by  chance  like,  when  Jim 
Foushee  and  the  two  O'Learys  were  sitting  smoking  on 
the  fence  behind  the  store.  The  O'Learys  were  tight  with 
the  Redeye  they  had  aboard,  and  let  it  out  in  their  stupid 
'  colloguing,'  as  they  call  it ;  but  Jim  Foushee  saw  me 
standing  at  the  window,  and  right  away  called  in  two  or 
three  of  the  Sandy  men  and  threatened  my  life  if  I  told 
Hammond.  They  have  watched  me  like  a  cat  ever  since, 
and  never  left  me  and  Hammond  alone  together.  They 
are  with  Hammond  now,  launching  a  coal-boat,  or  I  'd 
never  have  got  off  with  you." 

I  sat  breathless.  I  knew  it  was  ruin  to  let  the  expected 
rise  pass  without  getting  the  coal-boats  down;  but  what 
could  be  done  ? 

"  Don't  look  so  pale,  Janet.  You  can  tell  Hammond,  you 
know,  and  he  '11  find  a  way  to  circumvent  them.  And  it 
was  to  tell  you  all  this  that  I  brought  you  out  here  this 
afternoon,  only  my  unlucky  tongue  would  talk  of  what  I 
see  it 's  too  soon  to  talk  of  yet.  But  here  's  Louisa,  right 
ahead.  Make  haste  and  get  your  traps,  while  I  settle  my 
business,  and  we  '11  be  back,  perhaps,  -in '  time  for  you  to 
manage  some  way  to  see  Hammond  to-night.  Nobody 
knows  you  went  with  me,  and  you  '11  never  be  suspected." 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.  423 

Not  Tom  Salyers's  most  rapid  and  vigorous  rowing  could 
make  our  little  skiff  keep  pace  with  my  impatience  ;  but, 
thanks  to  his  efforts,  the  sun  was  still  high  when  he  landed 
me  in  the  little  cove  behind  our  house,  where  I  could  run 
up  through  the  woods  to  our  back-door.,  while  he  pulled 
boldly  up  to  the  store-landing  and  called  some  of  the  men 
to  help  him  carry  his  purchases  up  the  bank.  I  did  not 
stop  for  a.  word  with  my  step-mother,  but  passing  rapidly 
through  the  house,  threw  my  parcels  on  the  bed  in  the 
sitting-room,  and,  running  down  the  walk  to  the  maple-tree 
under  which  my  dug-out  was  always  tied,  jumped  into  it 
and  sculled  out  into  the  river.  The  coal-boat  had  just  been 
launched,  and  George  Hammond  was  standing  on  the  bank 
superintending  the  calking  of  the  seams  which  the  water 
made  visible.  I  pushed  up  to  the  bank,  and  called  to  him 
as  I  neared,  — 

"  Can  you  not  come,  Mr.  Hammond,  a  little  way  up- 
stream with  me  ?  I  have  found  those  young  tulip-trees  that 
you  want  for  your  garden  ;  they  are  just  round  the  bend 
above  Nat's  Creek.  Jim  Foushee  will  see  to  that  work, 
and  I  have  just  time  to  show  them  to  you  before  supper." 

I  was  a  favorite  with  Jim  Foushee.  He  laughed  a  joking 
welcome  to  me,  as  he  said, — 

"  I  '11  see  to  this,  sir,  if  you  want  to  go  with  Janet  Rains- 
ford.  She  's  the  gal  that  knows  the  woods.  A  splendid 
Sandy  wife  you  '11  make  some  young  fellow,  Janet,  if  you 
don't  get  too  book-learned." 

In  five  minutes  we  were  off  and  had  rounded  the  point 
out  of  sight  and  hearing.  In  a  few  hurried  words  I  told 
my  story,  but  at  first  Mr.  Hammond  would  not  believe  it. 

"  Those  rrien  that  I  've  done  so  much  for  and  worked  so 
hard  for  this  winter  !  " 

At  last,  convinced,  his  face  set  with  the  determined  look 
that  I  had  seen  on  it  once  or  twice  before. 

"  I  '11  not  raise  the  wages  of  a  single  man,  and,  what 's 
more,  I  }d  turn  them  all  off  the  place,  if  only  I  could  find 
others.  But  those  boats  at  Catlettsburg,  they  are  the  most 


424  A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

important.  The  company  would  send  me  up  men  from 
Cincinnati,  if  only  I  could  get  word  to  them  ;  but  these 
rascals  will  stop  any  letter  I  send.  Those  Sandians  are 
capable  of  it,  —  or  rather  they  are  capable  of  putting  the 
Irishmen  up  to  doing  their  dirty  work  for  them." 

"  A  letter  would  be  safe,  if  it  once  reached  Catlettsburg  ? " 
I  asked. 

«  Certainly.     But  how'  to  get  it  there  ?  " 

"I  can  take  it.  Nobody  will  suspect  me.  Give  me  the 
letter  to-night,  and  I  will  go  to-morrow." 

"  You,  Janet  ?  you  are  crazy  !  " 

"  No,  indeed.  I  often  ride  to  Louisa ;  what  is  to  hinder 
me  from  having  errands  to  Catlettsburg.  I  could  go  down 
there  in  one  day,  and  take  two  days  back,  if  my  father 
thinks  it  is  too  much  for  old  Bill  to  take  it  through  in  one." 

"  O,  you  could  borrow  Swiftfoot  I  have  often  lent  him 
to  you,  and  he  would  carry  you  safely  and  surely.  I  don't 
believe  any  harm  would  come  to  you,  and  so  much  depends 
upon  it." 

I  turned  the  skiff  decidedly. 

"  You  have  only  to  get  your  letter  ready  and  give  it  to  me 
when  I  come  over  in  the  morning  to  borrow  Swiftfoot.  I 
will  take  care  of  all  the  rest" 

And,  sculling  rapidly,  we  were  at  the  wharf  again  before 
he  had  time  to  raise  objections.  I  knew  that  I  could  per- 
suade my  mother  into  letting  me  go  to  Louisa  again  the 
next  day,  for  we  needed  all  our  spring  purchases,  —  and 
once  there  it  was  easy  to  find  it  necessary  to  go  to  the  mouth. 
I  had  never  been  alone,  but  often  with  my  father  or  some  of 
our  hands  ;  besides,  I  was  too  well  able  to  take  care  of  my- 
self, too  accustomed  to  have  my  own  way,  to  anticipate  any 
anxiety  about  my  not  returning. 

And  so  it  proved.  The  next  morning  saw  me  mounted 
on  Swiftfoot,  the  letter  safe  in  my  bosom,  and  a  long  list  of 
articles  wanted  in  my  pocket.  What  a  lovely  ride  that  was, 
with  the  gentle,  spirited  horse  of  which  I  was  so  fond"  for  a 
companion,  and  my  own  beautiful  forests  in  all  their  loveli- 


A  Half-Life  and  Half  a  Life.  425 

est  spring  green  around  me,  with  just  enough  of  mystery 
and  danger  in  the  expedition  to  add  an  exhilarating  excite- 
ment, and  with  the  happy  consciousness  that  I  was  doing 
something  for  Mr.  Hammond,  who  had  done  so  much  for 
me,  to  urge  me  on  !  I  cantered  merrily  past  Jim  Foushee's 
cornfield,  and,  nodding  to  him,  as  he  stood  in  the  door  of  his 
log-house,  I  enjoyed  telling  him  that  I  was  going  to  Louisa 
on  a  shopping  expedition.  "  Should  I  get  anything  for 
him  ?  He  could  see  that  Mr.  Hammond  had  lent  me  Swift- 
foot,  so  that  I  should  soon  be  back,  if  I  could  buy  all  I 
wanted  in  Louisa ;  if  not,  I  did  believe  I  should  go  on  to 
Catlettsburg  :  the  ride  would  be  so  glorious  !  " 

And  glorious  it  was.  I  was  happy  in  myself,  happy  in  my 
thoughts  of  my  friend,  happy  in  the  physical  enjoyment  of 
the  air,  the  woods,  the  sun,  the  shade.  Let  me  dwell  on 
that  ride.  I  have  not  had  many  happy  days,  but  that  was 
one  which  had  its  fulness  of  content.  And  I  succeeded  in 
putting  Mr.  Hammond's  letter  into  the  Catlettsburg  post- 
office,  made  my  little  purchases,  and  turned  my  horse's  head 
homeward,  reaching  the  end  of  my  journey  before  my  father 
or  step-mother  had  time  to  be  anxious  for  me,  and  having  a 
chance  to  whisper,  "  All  right,"  to  Tom  Salyers,  as  he  took 
my  horse  from  me  at  the  door  of  the  store. 

The  long-expected  rise  came,  and  the  strike  came,  Jim 
Foushee  heading  it,  and  standing  sullen  and  determined  in 
the  midst  of  his  party.  Mr.  Hammond  was  prepared  for 
them.  The  malcontents  came  to  him  in  the  store,  where  he 
was  filling  Tom's  place ;  for  he  had  sent  Tom  to  Catletts- 
burg, avowedly  to  prepare  the  boats  there  to  meet  the  rise, 
really  to  have  him  out  of  the  way.  Their  first  word  was 
met  coolly  enough. 

"You  will  not  work  another  stroke,  unless  I  give  you 
higher  wages,  I  understand,  Foushee  ?  And  these  men  say 
the  same  thing  ?  You  are  their  spokesman  ?  Very  well,  I 
am  satisfied ;  you  can  quit  work  to-morrow.  I  have  other 
hands  at  the  mouth  for  the  boats  there,  and  there  is  no  hur- 
ry about  the  coal  that  lies  here." 


426  A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

Foushee  burst  out  with  an  oath,  — 

"That  damned  Salyers  is  the  traitor!  mean,  cowardly 
rascal !  " 

But  Mr.  Hammond  would  not  tell  me  more  of  what 
passed  ;  perhaps  he  was  afraid  of  frightening  me.  This  on- 
ly he  told  me  that  night,  when  thanking  me  with  glance, 
voice,  and  pressure  of  the  hand  for  all  I  had  done  for  him. 
The  blood  rushed  quick  and  hot  through  my  veins,  I  was 
delirious  with  an  undreamed-of  happiness,  which  took  away 
from  me  all  power  of  answering,  of  even  raising  my  eyes  to 
his  face,  and  the  same  delirium  followed  me  to  my  pillow. 
He  had  called  me  his  friend,  his  little  Janet,  who  was  so 
quick  and  ready,  so  fertile  in  invention,  so  brave  in  execu- 
tion :  what  should  he  have  done  without  me  ?  I  repeated 
his  words  to  myself  till  they  lost  all  their  meaning ;  they 
were  only  replete  with  blissful  content,  and  filled  me  with 
their  music  till  I  dropped  asleep  for  very  weariness  in  say- 
ing them  over. 

The  next  morning,  before  I  waked,  George  Hammond 
had  gone.  He  had  left  for  Catlettsburg  to  direct  the  new 
hands.  The  works  lay  idle,  the  men  (those  who  had  been 
dismissed)  lounged  around  gloomy  and  sullen,  and  so  passed 
the  week.  Then  came  the  news  that  Mr.  Hammond  and 
Tom  Salyers  had  gone  to  Cincinnati,  and  would  not  return 
for  the  present,  and  that  such  men  as  were  satisfied  with 
the  former  wages  were  to  be  put  to  work  again.  Readily 
did  the  miners  come  back  to  their  duty,  all  but  a  few  of  the 
Sandy  men,  who  returned  to  their  own  homes,  and  all  fell 
into  the  usual  train. 

And  I  ?  There  was  first  the  calm  sense  of  happy  securi- 
ty, then  the  impatience  to  test  again  its  reality,  then  the 
longing  homesickness  of  the  heart.  As  weeks  passed  on 
and  I  saw  nothing  of  him,  as  I  heard  of  his  protracted  stay, 
as  I  saw  Miss  Hammond  make  her  preparations  to  join 
him,  as  I  watched  the  boat  which  carried  her  away,  my  sense 
of  loneliness  became  too  heavy  for  me,  and  the  same  pil- 
low on  which  I  had  known  those  happy  slumbers  was  wet 
with  tears  of  bitter  despondency. 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.  427 

And  yet  I  understood  neither  the  happiness  nor  the  tears. 
I  did  not  know  (how  should  I  ?)  what  were  the  new  feelings 
which  made  my  heart  beat  at  George  Hammond's  name.  I 
did  not  know  why  I  yearned  towards  his  sister  with  a 
warmth  of  love  that  would  fain  show  itself  in  kindly  word 
or  deed.  I  did  not  know  why  the  news  that  he  was  coming 
again,  which  greeted  me  after  long  weeks  of  weariness, 
brightened  with  joyful  radiance  everything  that  I  saw,  and 
glorified  the  aspect  of  my  little  garret,  as  I  had  seen  a  bril- 
liant bunch  of  flowers  glorify  and  refine  with  a  light  of 
beauty  the  every-day  ugliness  of  our  sitting-room. 

I  sang  my  merriest  songs  that  night,  and  my  feet  kept 
time  to  their  music  in  almost  dancing  measures.  The  next 
day,  yes,  by  noon  he  would  be  at  home.  I  could  see  his 
boat  land  from  my  little  window,  and  then,  giving  Miss 
Hammond  time  to  be  safely  housed,  I  would  row  myself 
over  to  the  store  and  meet  him  there.  How  much  I  should 
have  to  tell  him,  how  much  to  hear ! 

The  morning  came,  and  with  it  came  a  nervous  bashful- 
ness.  I  should  never  dare  to  go  over  to  see  him.  No,  I 
would  wait  quietly  until  night,  when  he  would  surely  come 
himself  to  see  me.  Still  I  could  watch  his  boat.  And  ner- 
vously did  I  stand,  my  face  pressed  against  the  window- 
pane,  through  the  long  morning  hours,  my  sewing  dropped 
neglected  in  my  lap  at  the  risk  of  a  scolding  from  my  moth- 
er, watching  the  slow-passing  river,  and  the  leaves  hanging 
motionless  over  it  in  the  stillness  of  the  summer  noon.  At 
last  there  was  a  stir  on  the  opposite  shore.  Yes,  the  boat 
must  be  in  sight ;  I  could  even  hear  the  shouts  of  the  boat- 
men ;  and  there,  rounding  the  bluff,  she  was ;  there,  too, 
was  Mr.  Hammond  in  the  stern,  with  the  rudder  in  his 
hand ;  there  sat  Miss  Hammond,  book  in  hand,  with  her 
usual  look  of  listless  disdain.  But  whose  was  that  girlish 
face  raised  towards  Mr.  Hammond,  while  he  pointed  out  so 
eagerly  the  surrounding  objects  ?  whose  that  slight,  girlish 
figure,  crowned  with  the  light  garden-hat,  with  its  wealth  of 
golden  hair  escaping  from  under  it  ? 


428  A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

A  sharp  pang  shot  through  me.  Some  one  was  coming 
to  disturb  my  happy  hours  with  my  teacher  and  friend ;  and 
the  chill  of  disappointment  was  on  me  already.  I  saw  the 
boat  land,  saw  George  Hammond  assist  carefully  every  step 
of  the  strange  girl,  saw  an  elderly  gentleman  step  also  upon 
the  bank  and  give  his  hand  to  Miss  Hammond,  and  in  two 
minutes  the  trees  of  the  landing  hid  them  from  my  sight. 

And  how  slowly  went  the  hours  of  that  afternoon  !  how 
nervously  I  listened  to  every  tread,  to  every  click  of  the 
gate !  nay,  my  sharpened  hearing  took  note  of  every  sway 
of  the  branches.  But  the  day  passed,  the  night,  and  no  one 
came.  The  next  morning  brought  with  it  an  impatience 
which  mastered  me.  I  must  go,  I  must  see  him,  and  in 
five  minutes  I  was  pushing  my  boat  from  its  cove  under  the 
water-maple. 

But  I  needed  not  to  have  left  my  room  ;  my  visit  would 
be  useless  ;  for,  lifting  my  eyes,  as  my  boat  came  out  from 
under  the  leaves,  there,  on  the  path  by  the  river-side  oppo- 
site, I  saw  the  strange  lady  mounted  on  Swiftfoot,  her  light 
figure  set  off  by  a  cloth  riding-habit  such  as  I  had  never 
seen  before,  the  graceful  folds  of  which  struck  me  even  then 
with  a  sense  of  beauty  and  fitness.  I  could  even  distinguish 
the  golden  curls  again,  which  fell  close  on  George  Ham- 
mond's face,  as  he  stood  by  her  side  arranging  her  stirrup, 
his  own  horse's  bridle  over  his  arm.  A  backward  motion 
of  the  oar  sent  my  boat  under  the  branches  again,  and  I  sat 
motionless,  watching  them  as  they  rode  away. 

Two  hours  afterward  they  stopped  at  our  gate,  and  I 
heard  George  Hammond's  voice  calling  me.  The  blood 
rushed  to  my  forehead.  Had  I  been  alone,.!  would  not  have 
heard ;  but  my  mother  was  in  the  room,  and  I  had  no  ex- 
cuse for  not  going  forward.  He  leaned  from  his  horse  and 
shook  hands  cordially,  while,  at  the  same  time,  he  said,  — 

"I  have  brought  Miss  Worthington  to  see  you,  Janet. 
She  has  heard  so  much  of  your  kindness  to  me,  and  of  your 
courage  last  spring,  that  she  was  anxious  to  know  you. 

"  This  is  Janet  Rainsford,  Amy,"  he  continued,  turning  to 
her. 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.          429 

The  lovely,  bright  young  face  was  bent  towards  me,  the 
tiny  hand  stretched  out  to  mine,  and  I  heard  a  gentle  voice 
say,— 

"  Mr.  Hammond  has  told  me  so  much  of  you,  Janet,  (I 
may  call  you  Janet,  may  I  not  ?)  that  I  was  determined  to 
come  and  see  you.  I  hope  we  shall  know  each  other." 

A  great  fear  seized  me  then,  —  a  fear  which  seemed  to 
clutch  my  heart  and  stop  its  beatings,  leaving  me  without 
any  power  of  reply.  I  only  stammered  a  few  words,  and 
Mr.  Hammond,  pitying  what  he  thought  my  bashfulness, 
rode  on  with  a  nod  of  farewell  and  some  words,  I  could  not 
take  in  their  sense,  which  seemed  to  be  requests  that  I 
would  teach  Miss  Worthington  all  that  I  knew  of  the  woods 
and  the  country. 

I  sat  down  with  a  stunned  feeling,  dizzied  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  seemed  to  blaze  upon  me  with  that  horrid  fear. 
Yes,  I  knew  now  what  it  all  meant,  —  the  happiness,  the 
loneliness  of  the  past  weeks,  the  shrinking  bashfulness  of 
yesterday  morning,  and  the  chill  that  fell  upon  me  when  I 
first  saw  the  stranger  in  the  boat. 

I  loved  George  Hammond,  —  I,  the  country-girl,  without 
one  beauty,  one  accomplishment,  so  ignorant,  so  beneath 
him.  I  had  been  fool  enough  to  fling  away  my  heart,  —  and 
now,  now  that  it  was  gone  from  me,  there  came  this  terrible 
fear.  What  was  this  young  girl  to  him  ?  Were  my  intui- 
tions right  ?  Did  he  love  her  ?  Would  she  take  him  away 
from  me  ?  take  away  even  that  poor  friendship  which  was  all 
I  asked  ? 

That  night,  —  I  cannot  tell  of  it,  —  the  rapid,  wearying 
walk  from  side  to  side  of  my  little  garret,  the  despairing 
flinging  myself  on  the  bed,  the  restlessness  that  would 
bring  me  to  my  feet  again,  the  pressing  my  hot  face  against 
the  cool  window-pane,  the  convulsive  sobs  with  which  the 
struggle  ended,  the  heavy,  unrefreshing  sleep  that  came  at 
last,  and  the  dull  wakening  in  the  morning,  when  nothing 
seemed  left  abo*ut  my  heart  but  a  dead  weight  of  insensi- 
bility. But  with  the  brightening  hours  came  again  the 


430          A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

restlessness.  I  would  at  least  know  the  worst ;  let  me  face 
all  my  wretchedness ;  it  could  not  be  but  strength  would 
come  to  me  when  the  worst  was  over. 

And  so  I  went  doggedly  through  my  morning  tasks,  and 
the  early  afternoon  saw  me  at  the  store.  I  would  not  go  to 
Miss  Hammond's  house,  but  I  was  sure  to  hear  something 
of  the  new-comers  among  the  gossiping  miners  and  work- 
men, —  or,  if  not  there,  I  had  only  to  drop  into  some  of  the 
cottages  to  learn  from  their  wives  all  that  they  knew  or  im- 
agined. How  little  I  learned,  —  how  little  compared  to 
what  my  fierce,  craving  heart  asked  ! 

"  Miss  Worthington  was  here  with  her  father ;  they  had 
come  to  see  the  mines,  so  they  said ;  but  who  knows  the 
truth  ?  More  like  it  was  to  be  a  wedding  between  the 
young  folks,  and  the  father  wanted  to  see  the  Sandy  country 
before  he  let  his  daughter  come  into  it  She  was  a  sweet- 
spoken  young  thing,  —  not  like  Miss  Hammond,  with  her 
proud,  quality  airs." 

But  all  this  was  only  conjecture,  and  I  must  have  cer- 
tainty. The  certainty  came  that  evening.  Mr.  Hammond 
passed  the  store  as  I  was  standing  by  the  counter,  and  in- 
sisted that  I  should  go  home  to  tea  with  him.  I  had  often 
done  so  before,  and  had  no  excuse,  even  when  he  said,  — 

"I  want  so  much  to  make  Miss  Worthington  like  our 
Sandy  people,  Janet.  I  want  her  father  to  see  that  there  are 
people  worth  knowing  even  here.  You  will  tell  her  of  all  the 
pleasures  we  have,  —  our  walks,  our  rides.  You  cannot  be 
afraid  of  her,  dear  Janet,  —  she  is  so  gentle,  so  lovely." 

A  strange  feeling  seized  me,  one  mingled  of  gentleness 
and  bitterness.  Yes,  for  his  sake,  I  would  help  him.  I 
would  do  all  I  could  to  welcome  to  his  home  her  who  was 
to  be  its  blessing,  and  (here  my  good  angel  left  me  and  some 
evil  one  whispered)  I  would  show  her,  .too,  that  I  was  not 
so  altogether  to  be  contemned ;  she  should  see  that  I  was 
not  merely  the  poor  country-girl  she  thought  me.  'And  all 
I  had  of  thought  or  feeling,  all  that  George  'Hammond  had 
called  my  inborn  poetry,  came  out  that  evening.  I  talked,  I 


A  Half-L  ife  and^  Half  a  L  ife.  43 1 

talked  well,  for  I  was  talking  of  what  I  understood,  —  of  my 
own  forests  and  streams,  of  the  flowers  whose  haunts  I 
knew  so  well,  of  the  changing  seasons  in  their  varying 
beauty,  —  nay,  as  I  gained  courage,  as  I  saw  that  I  com- 
manded attention,  the  books  that  I  had  read  so  well,  the 
thoughts  of  those  great  writers  that  I  had  made  my  Own, 
came  to  my  aid,  and  quotation  and  allusion  pressed  readily 
to  my  lips. 

I  saw  Esther  Hammond's  cold  look  fixed  upon  my  face, 
but  I  dared  it  back  again,  and  my  color  rose  and  my  eye 
sparkled  from  the  excitement.  I  felt  my  triumph  when  I 
saw  the  surprise  on  Mr.  Hammond's  face,  when  I  heard  the 
patronizing  tone  of  Mr.  Worthington's  voice  changed  to 
one  of  equality,  as  he  said,  — 

"  You  are  a  worthy  champion  of  Sandy  life,  Miss  Janet. 
I  believe  Amy  will  be  tempted  to  try  it." 

There  was  a  quick  blush  on  Amy's  face  as  I  turned  to 
look  at  it,  and  a  glance  of  proud  affection  towards  her  from 
George  Hammond,  which  took  away  my  false  strength  as  I 
stood,  leaving  me,  weak  and  trembling,  to  seek  my  home  in 
the  evening  twilight. 

That  evening's  short-lived  triumph  cost  me  dear.  It 
betrayed  my  scarcely  self-acknowledged  secret  to  another. 
Miss  Hammond's  woman's-eye  had  read  the  poor  fool  who 
laid  her  heart  open  before  her.  I  was  made  to  feel  my  weak- 
ness before  her  the  next  morning,  when,  walking  into  our 
kitchen,  she  asked,  with  her  hard,  yet  dignified  calmness, 
that  I  should  gather  for  her  some  of  the  Summer  Sweetings 
that  hung  so  thick  on  the  tree  behind  our  house. 

She  followed  me  to  the  orchard.  I  gathered  the  apples 
diligently  and  spoke  no  word,  but  not  for  that  did  I  escape. 
She  stood  calmly  looking  on  till  I  had  finished,  then  began 
with  that  terrible  opening  from  which  we  all  shrink. 

"  I  should  like  to  speak  to  you  a  few  moments,  Janet." 

I  quailed  before  her,  for  I  had  somehow  a  perception  of 
what  she  was  going  to  say,  though  I  scarcely  dreamed  of  the 
hardness  with  which  it  would  be  said.  The  blow  came, 
however. 


432  A  Half-Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

"  My  brother  has  been  in  the  habit  of  taking  notice  of 
you  ever  since  he  has  been  on  the  Sandy,  and  he  has  been 
of  great  advantage  to  you  ;  but  you  must  be  aware  that  such 
notice  as  he  gave  you  when  you  were  a  mere  child  cannot 
be  continued  now  that  you  are  a  woman." 

I  bowed  my  head,  and  my  lips  formed  something  like  a 
"Yes." 

She  went  on. 

"  I  say  this  to  you  because  I  was  surprised  to  find  by  your 
behavior  last  night  that  you  had  allowed  yourself  to  presume 
upon  that  notice,  and  I  do  not  suppose  you  know  how  unbe- 
coming this  is,  from  a  person  in  your  position,  especially 
before  Miss  Worthington." 

I  was  stung  into  a  reply. 

"  What  is  Miss  Worthington  to  me  ?  "  came  out  sullenly 
from  my  lips. 

"  Nothing  to  you,  certainly,  nor  can  she  ever  be :  but  as 
the  future  wife  of  my  brother,  she  is  something  to  me." 

It  was  true,  then  ;  but  so  fully  had  I  felt  the  truth  before 
that  this  certainty  gave  me  no  added  pang.  From  its  very 
depths  of  despair  I  drew  strength,  and,  my  courage  rising, 
I  had  power  even  to  look  full  at  Miss  Hammond,  and 
say,— 

"  You  may  be  sure  I  shall  never  intrude  myself  on  Mr. 
Hammond's  wife  or  sister,  nor  upon  him,  unless  he  desires 
it,  except,  indeed,  to  wish  him  happiness." 

My  unexpected  calmness  roused  her  worst  feelings,  her 
pride,  her  jealousy,  and,  with  a  woman's  keen  aim,  she  sent 
the  next  dart  home.  So  calmly  she  spoke,  too,  with  such 
command  of  herself,  —  with  a  lady-like  self-control  that  I, 
alas  !  knew  not  how  to  reach. 

"  I  am  happy  to  hear  you  say  so,  for  there  have  been  times 
when  your  singular  manner  has  made  me  fear  that  you 
nourished  some  very  false  and  idle  dreams,  —  follies  that  I 
have  sometimes  thought  it  my  duty  as  a  woman  to  warn 
you  against  "  ;  and  with  one  keen  look  at  my  burning  face, 
she  took  up  the  basket  and  walked  away. 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.  433 

I  think  at  that  moment  I  could  have  killed  her,  so  bitter 
was  the  hatred  which  I  felt  towards  her ;  but  the  next 
brought  its  crushing  shame,  taking  away  from  me  all  but 
the  desire  to  hide  myself  from  every  eye.  Where  should  I 
go  ?  Somewhere  where  nobody  could  find  me,  where  I 
could  be  insured  perfect  solitude.  It  was  not  difficult  to 
bury  myself  in  the  forest  that  pressed  around  me  on  every 
side,  and  a  few  minutes  saw  me  struggling  with  the  embar- 
rassments of  the  tangled  vines  which  obstructed  the  path  up 
our  steepest  hill.  There  was  in  the  very  difficulties  to  be 
overcome  something  that  seemed  to  bring  me  relief;  they 
forced  my  mind  from  myself.  On,  on  I  went,  as  if  my  life 
depended  upon  my  struggles,  till,  breathless  and  utterly  ex- 
hausted, I  had  reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  the  highest  point 
for  miles  around. 

I  sank  down  on  the  cool  grass,  the  fresh  wind  blowing  on 
my  face,  and,  too  wearied  to  think,  shut  my  eyes  against  the 
beautiful  Nature  around  me,  alive  only  to  my  own  over- 
powering misery.  How  long  I  lay  there  I  never  knew.  I 
was  safe  and  alone.  I  could  be  wretched  as  I  pleased,  away 
from  Miss  Hammond's  mocking  eye,  away  from  the  sight 
of  George  Hammond's  happiness.  But,  strangely  enough, 
out  of  the  very  freedom  to  be  miserable  came  at  last  a  sense 
of  relief.  I  looked  my  wretchedness  full  in  the  face.  Could 
I  not  bear  it  ?  And  there  rose  within  me  a  strength  I  had 
not  known  before.  I  was  young,  I  had  a  long  life  before 
me ;  it  could  not  be  but  that  this  great  sorrow  would  pass 
away.  At  least  I  would  not  nourish  it.  I  would  do  what  I 
could  to  help  myself.  Help  myself!  For  the  first  time  in 
my  life  I  put  up  an  earnest  prayer  for  help  out  of  myself. 
The  words,  coming  as  such  words  come  but  few  times  in 
life,  out  from  the  very  depths  of  the  heart,  brought  with 
them  their  softening  influence.  The  tears  sprung  forth, 
those  tears  which  I  thought  I  should  never  shed  again,  and 
I  burst  into  a  passionate  fit  of  crying,  the  passionate  crying 
of  a  child.  It  shook  me  from  head  to  foot  with  its  hysteri- 
cal convulsions,  but  it  left  me  at  last  calmer,  soothed  into 
19  BB 


434  A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

stillness,  with  only  now  and  then  those  choking  after-sobs 
which  I,  child-like,  sent  forth  there  on  the  bosom  of  the 
only  mother  I  had  ever  known,  — our  kindly  mother  Earth. 

The  sun  was  going  down  when  I  rose  up,  soothed  and 
comforted,  and  strengthened,  too,  for  a  time.  I  would  do 
what  I  could.  I  would  live  down  this  grief :  how  I  knew 
not,  but  the  way  would  come  to  me.  And  gathering  up  my 
hair,  which  had  fallen  around  me,  I  stopped,  on  my  way 
home,  by  a  running  stream,  and  bathed  my  eyes  and  fore- 
head until  I  was  fit  to  appear  before  my  step-mother.  She 
did  not  question  me :  she  was  too  used  to  my  unexplained 
absences  since  I  had  grown  out  of  her  control.  Sufficient 
for  her  that  my  tasks  were  always  performed  ;  sufficient  for 
her,  that,  that  very  evening,  I  threw  myself  with  an  appar- 
ently untiring  energy  into  the  household  work,  —  that  I 
never  rested  a  moment  till  she  herself  closed  the  house  and 
insisted  that  I  should  go  to  bed.  I  slept  that  night,  —  after 
such  fatigue,  it  was  impossible  but  that  I  should,  —  and 
woke  in  the  morning  with  a  renewed  determination  to  strug- 
gle against  my  sorrow. 

Alas  !  alas  !  I  thought  I  had  only  to  resolve.  I  thought 
the  struggle  would  be  but  once.  How  little  I  knew  of  the 
daily,  almost  hourly,  changes  of  feeling,  —  of  the  despond- 
ency, the  despair,  that  would  come,  I  knew  not  why, 
directly  upon  my  most  earnest  resolves,  my  hardest  strug- 
gles,—  of  the  weakness  that  would  make  me  at  times  give 
up  all  struggling  as  useless,  —  of  the  mad  hope  that  would 
sometimes  arise  that  something,  some  outward  change,  I  did 
not  dare  to  say  what,  would  bring  me  some  relief ! 

I  had  at  least  the  courage  to  keep  away  from  the  sight  of 
all  that  was  so  miserable  to  me.  I  did  not  see  George  Ham- 
mond for  weeks,  and  he, — ah  !  there  was  the  bitterness, — 
he  did  not  miss  me. 

And  so  the  weary  days  went  on.  It  is  wonderful  what 
endurance  there  is  in  a  young  heart,  —  for  how  long  a  time 
it  can  beat  off  suffering  all  day  by  unceasing  labor,  and  lie 
awake  all  night  with  that  same  suffering  for  a  bedfel- 


A  Half-Life  and  Half  a  Life.          435 

low,  and  still  make  no  sign  that  a  careless  eye  can  see.  I 
look  at  that  time  now  with  wonder.  How  did  I  bear  that 
constant  occupation  by  day,  alternated  only  with  those  sleep- 
less nights,  without  breaking  down  entirely  ?  The  crisis 
came  at  last, — :a  sort  of  stupor,  a  cessation  of  suffering 
indeed,  but  a  cessation,  too,  of  all  feeling.  I  was  frightened 
at  myself.  Alas  !  I  had  no  one  to  be  frightened  for  me. 
Could  it  be  that  I  was  going  to  lose  my  senses  ?  But  no,  I 
passed  through  that  too,  and  then  came  a  more  natural  state 
of  mind  than  any  I  had  known  since  the  blow  fell. 

My  suffering  self  seemed  like  something  apart  from  me, 
which  I  could  pity  and  help,  could  counsel  and  act  for,  and 
this  one  thing  came  clear  to  me.  Some  change  of  scene 
was  necessary  to  me.  I  could  never  go  on  so  ;  it  was  idle 
to  attempt  it.  I  could  not  live  any  longer  face  to  face  with 
my  grief.  There  was  the  whole  world  before  me.  Was  it 
not  possible  to  go  out  into  it  ?  I  had  health,  strength,  abil- 
ity, I  was  sure  of  it.  How  often  before  had  I  dreamed  over 
the  seeking  my  fortune  in  that  world  which  looked  to  me 
then  so  full  of  excitement  ?  Nothing  had  held  me  back  then 
but  the  clinging  to  home-pleasures,  to  home-enjoyments,  to 
home-comforts,  poor  as  they  were,  —  nothing  but  the  sense 
of  safety,  of  protection.  What  were  these  to  me  now  ?  I 
cared  nothing  for  them.  I  only  asked  to  be  away  from  all  that 
reminded  me  of  my  suffering,  to  be  so  forced  to  struggle  with 
external  difficulties  as  to  have  no  thought  for  myself.  I  did 
not  want  to  love  anybody  ;  I  would  rather  have  nobody  care 
for  me.  I  would  go.  The  only  question  was  how. 

A  few  days  and  nights  of  thought  solved  the  problem  for 
me,  and,  once  roused  to  action,  I  took  my  steps  rapidly  and 
well.  The  first  thing  necessary  was  money,  money  enough 
to  take  me  away,  and  to  support  me  until  I  could  find  em- 
ployment ;  and  the  means  of  attaining  it  were  within  my 
reach.  I  owned  a  watch  that  had  been  my  mother's,  a 
pretty  trinket,  though  somewhat  old-fashioned,  and  which 
had  often  excited  the  envy  of  the  young  wife  of  one  of  the 
head  miners.  I  knew  that  her  husband  was  flush  of  money 


436          A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

just  then,  for  he  had  drawn  his  wages  only  the  week  before, 
—  and  I  knew,  too,  that  he  would  give  me  a  good  price  for 
my  watch,  were  it  only  to  gratify  the  bride  to  whom  he  had 
as  yet  denied  nothing. 

The  sale  was  made  at  once.  I  do  not  know  if  I  got 
anything  like  the  value  of  the  watch,  but  the  next  day  saw 
me  with  fifty  dollars  in  my  pocket,  a  small  bundle,  made  up 
from  the  most  available  part  of  my  wardrobe,  under  my 
arm,  prepared  to  walk  to  Louisa,  avowedly  to  buy  supplies, 
but  with  the  secret  determination  to  meet  there  the  coal- 
boats  which  were  bound  for  the  mouth,  ask  a  passage  on 
them  as  far  as  Catlettsburg,  and  there  take  the  first  steamer 
that  passed,  and  let  it  carry  me  whither  it  would. 

There  was  no  pause  of  regret,  no  delay  for  parting  looks 
or  words  ;  from  the  moment  that  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to 
go,  I  felt  nothing  but  a  desperate  eagerness  to  be  away,  to 
be  in  action.  The  few  words  necessary  to  prepare  my  step- 
mother for  my  ostensible  errand  were  soon  said,  the  good- 
morning  calmly  spoken,  and  I  passed  into  the  forest-path 
leading  to  the  town.  A  pang  smote  me  as  I  remembered 
her  conscientious  discharge  of  duty  toward  me  for  so  many 
years ;  but  it  was  duty,  not  love,  that  had  urged  her,  and 
while  I  said  that  to  myself,  I  said,  too,  that  time  would  bring 
to  me  the  opportunity  of  repaying  her. 

Toward  the  settlement  on  the  opposite  shore  I  turned  no 
look.  I  would  not  trust  myself;  I  knew  my  own  weakness 
too  well ;  this  desperate  energy  which  was  carrying  me  on 
now  would  fail,  if  I  allowed  my  heart  one  moment's  indul- 
gence. Steadily  I  walked  on  through  the  woods,  my  own 
woods,  which,  perhaps,  I  should-never  see  again,  till  wearied 
out  by  the  exertion,  which  had  precluded  thought,  I  saw  the 
houses  of  Louisa  rise  before  me. 

The  boats  lay  at  the  fork  above  the  town.  I  had  informed 
myself  of  their  movements,  and  knew  they  were  to  start  at 
noon.  A  few  inquiries  for  groceries  and  so  forth,  where  I 
knew  they  could  not  be  gotten,  gave  me  an  excuse  for  the 
proposition  to  the  captain  of  the  boats  to  give  me  a  passage 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.  437 

to  Catlettsburg.  It  was  readily  granted,  and  the  crew,  most 
of  them  Sandy  men,  put  up  a  rough  awning,  and,  spreading 
under  it  some  blankets,  did  their  kind  uttermost  to  make  me 
comfortable. 

I  remember  now,  as  one  looks  back  into  a  dream,  the 
afternoon  and  night  that  passed  before  we  reached  Catletts- 
burg. I  lay  perfectly  quiet,  watching  the  shadowy  trees  as 
we  glided  past  them,  noting  their  varied  reflections  in  the 
water,  marking  every  peculiarity  of  shore  and  stream,  hear- 
ing the  jests  and  laughter,  the  words  of  command  and  the 
oaths,  that  went  round  among  the  boatmen ;  but  all  passed 
as  something  with  which  I  had  nothing  to  do.  To  me 
there  was  the  burning  desire  to  put  a  great  distance  between 
myself  and  my  home,  —  but  with  it,  too,  the  consciousness, 
that,  as  I  could  do  nothing  to  expedite  our  slow  progress, 
so  neither  could  I  afford  to  waste  upon  it  in  impatient  rest- 
lessnes  the  strength  which  would  be  so  much  needed  after- 
wards. The  men  brought  me  a  cup  of  coffee  from  their 
supper,  which  gave  me  strength  for  the  night.  The  biscuit 
I  could  not  taste. 

But  how  long  was  that  night !  how  tedious  the  summer 
dawn !  and  how  slowly  went  the  hours  till  we  brought  up 
our  boats  at  the  landing  at  Catlettsburg  ! 

I  had  formed  my  plans ;  so,  telling  the  captain  that  I 
might  perhaps  want  to  go  back  with  him,  I  hurried  into  the 
town.  A  steamboat  lay  by  the  wharf-boat.  "  The  Bostona, 
for  Cincinnati,"  said  the  board  displayed  over  her  upper 
railing.  She  was  to  leave  at  eight  o'clock.  I  walked  about 
the  town  till  half-past  seven ;  then,  returning  to  the  coal- 
boats,  gave  to  the  man  left  in  charge  a  letter  I  had  prepared 
in  which  I  told  my  step-mother,  in  as  few  words  as  possible, 
that  I  wanted  to  see  something  of  the  world,  and  had  deter- 
mined to  go  for  a  time  either  to  Cincinnati  or  to  Pittsburg, 
—  that  I  begged  her  not  to  be  uneasy  about  me,  I  had  sold 
my  watch,  and  had  money  enough  for  the  present ;  she 
should  hear  from  me  in  due  time.  The  man  took  the  letter, 
with  some  remark  on  my  not  returning  with  them,  and,  with 


438  A  Half-Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

a  quiet  good-day,  I  left  him  and  walked  rapidly  toward  the 
steamer.  The  plank  was  laid  from  the  wharf-boat,  and, 
without  daring  to  hesitate,  I  walked  over  it. 

It  was  done.  I  was  fairly  separated  from  everything  I 
had  ever  known  before  ;  everything  now  was  new  to  me  ;  I 
was  ignorant  of  all  around  me ;  each  step  might  be  a  mis- 
take. I  felt  this,  when  a  porter,  stepping  forward  and  taking 
my  bundle,  asked  me  if  I  would  have  a  state-room.  What 
was  a  state-room  ?  I  did  not  know,  but  saying  "  Yes,"  with 
a  desperate  feeling  that  it  might  as  well  be  "yes  "  as  "no," 
I  was  led  back  to  the  ladies'  cabin,  a  key  was  turned  in  one 
of  an  infinite  number  of  little  doors,  and  I  was  ushered  into 
what  looked  to  me  like  a  closet,  with  shelves  made  to  take 
the  place  of  beds.  Here  at  least  I  was  alone,  and  here  I 
could  be  alone  till  dinner-time ;  till  then  there  was  no  call 
for  action  on  my  part. 

And  how  precious  seemed  to  me  every  hour  of  rest  I 
Singularly  enough,  my  great  sorrow  did  not  come  back 
to  me  in  those  pauses  of  action.  I  seemed  then  to  be 
entirely  absorbed  in  gathering  strength  for  the  next  occa- 
sion ;  my  grief  was  put  away  for  the  future,  when  there 
would  come  to  me  the  time  to  indulge  it. 

So  I  lay  quiet  during  that  morning,  looking  sometimes 
through  my  little  window  at  the  passing  shore,  listening 
sometimes  to  the  loud  talking  in  the  cabin,  sometimes  to  the 
noises  on  the  boat,  wondering  if  all  those  strange  creakings 
and  shakings  could  be  right,  but  finding  a  sense  of  security 
in  my  very  ignorance.  Dinner  came,  and  in  the  course  of 
it  I  found  courage  to  ask  the  captain,  at  whose  right  hand  I 
was  placed,  what  time  we  should  reach  Cincinnati.  "  Not 
till  after  breakfast,"  was  his  welcome  answer;  for  I  had 
been  haunted  by  a  dread  of  being  set  adrift  in  a  great  city 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  when  I  might  perhaps  fall  into 
some  den  of  thieves.  I  had  read  of  such  things  in  my 
books.  This  gave  me  still  the  afternoon  before  it  would  be 
necessary  to  think,  some  hours  more  in  which  to  rest  mind 
and  body. 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.          439 

The  night  came  at  last,  and  I  must  decide  what  step  to 
take  next,  that,  my  mind  made  up,  I  might  perhaps  get 
some  sleep.  I  turned  restlessly  in  my  narrow  bed,  got  up 
and  stood  at  the  window,  tried  first  the  upper  shelf,  and 
then  the  lower,  but  no  possible  plan  presented  itself.  I  still 
saw  before  me  that  terrible  city  where  I  should  be  ten  times 
lonelier  than  in  the  midst  of  our  forests,  where  I  should 
make  mistakes  at  every  turn,  where  I  should  not  know  one 
face  out  of  the  many  thousands  that  crowded  upon  my 
nervous  fancy.  I  seemed  to  be  Afraid  of  nothing  but  human 
beings,  and,  at  the  thought  of  encountering  them,  my  wo- 
man's heart  gave  way.  In  vain  I  reasoned  with  myself,  "  I 
shall  not  see  all  Cincinnati  at  once,  —  not  more  at  one  time, 
perhaps,  than  I  saw  to-day  at  dinner."  Still  came  up  those 
endless  streets,  all  filled  with  strange  faces  ;  still  I  saw  my- 
self pushed,  jostled,  by  a  succession  of  men  and  women 
who  cared  nothing  for  me.  Suddenly  came  the  thought, 
"  Tom  Salyers  is  in  Cincinnati.  There  is  one  person  there 
that  I  know.  If  I  could  only  find  him,  he  would  take  care 
of  me  till  I  knew  how  to  take  care  of  myself." 

There  came  no  remembrance  of  our  last  conversation  to 
check  my  eager  joy.  Indeed,  it  had  never  made  much  im- 
pression upon  me,  followed  as  it  had  been  by  so  much  of 
nearer  interest  I  set  myself  to  reflect  on  the  means  of 
finding  him.  He  had  gone  down  in  the  employ  of  the  coal 
company.  The  captain  could  tell  me  where  to  look  for  him, 
and,  satisfied  with  that,  I  laid  my  weary  head  on  my  pillow. 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast  I  gained  the  needed  infor- 
mation. "  Did  I  want  to  find  one  of  the  men  in  Mr.  Ham- 
mond's employment  ?  I  must  go  to  the  coal-yard  "  ;  and 
the  direction  was  written  out  for  me. 

And  now  we  neared  the  city.  I  stood  on  the  guards  and 
looked,  wondering  at  the  steamboats  that  lined  the  river- 
bank,  at  the  long  rows  of  houses  that  stretched  before  me, 
the  tall  chimneys  vomiting  smoke  which  obscured  the  sur- 
rounding hills,  at  the  crowd  of  men  and  drays  on  the  land- 
ing through  which  I  was  to  make  my  way ;  but  my  courage 


440  A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

rose  with  the  occasion,  and,  stepping  resolutely  from  the 
plank,  I  walked  up  the  hill  and  stood  among  the  ware- 
houses. I  had  been  told  to  "  turn  to  the  right  and  take  the 
first  street,  I  could  not  miss  my  way  "  ;  but  somehow  I  did 
miss  my  way  again  and  again,  and  wandered  weary  and  be- 
wildered, not  daring  at  first  to  ask  for  directions,  till,  gath- 
ering strength  from  my  very  weariness,  I  at  last  saw  before 
me  the  welcome  sign.  It  was  something  like  home  to  see 
it ;  the  familiar  names  cheered  me  while  they  moved  me.  I 
entered  the  office  trembling  with  a  wild  dread  lest  I  should 
meet  Mr.  Hammond  there,  but  the  sight  of  a  stranger's 
face  at- the  desk  gave  me  courage  to  ask  for  Tom  Salyers. 

"  He  is  in  the  yard  now.  Here,  Jim,  tell  Salyers  there  's 
a  person "  —  he  hesitated  —  "a  lady  wants  to  see  him." 

I  sat  down  in  a  chair  which  was  luckily  near  me,  for  my 
knees  trembled  so  that  I  could  not  stand,  and  as  the  door 
opened  and  Tom's  familiar  face  was  before  me,  my  whole 
composure  gave  way  and  I  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  crying. 

"Janet!  is  it  you?  For  Heaven's  sake,  what  is  the 
matter  ?  " 

But  I  could  only  sob  in  answer. 

"  Has  anything  happened  up  Sandy  ?  Did  you  come  for 
me?" 

The  poor  fellow  leaned  over  me,  his  face  pale  with  sur- 
prise and  agitation. 

"  Take  me  out  of  here  !  "  was  all  I  could  muster  compo- 
sure enough  to  say. 

He  opened  the  door,  and  I  escaped  into  the  open  air. 
We  walked  side  by  side  through  the  streets,  he  silently  re- 
specting my  agitation  with  a  delicacy  for  which  I  had  not 
given  him  credit,  and  I  struggling  to  grow  calm.  At  last  he 
opened  a  little  side-gate. 

"  Come  in  here,  Janet ;  we  shall  be  quiet  here." 

And  I  entered  a  sort  of  garden ;  the  grounds  belonging 
to  the  city  water-works  I  have  since  known  them  to  be. 
We  sat  down  on  a  bench  that  overlooked  the  Kentucky  hills. 
I  love  the  seat  now.  I  think  the  sight  of  the  familiar  fields 


A  Half-Life  and  Half  a  Life.  441 

and  trees  calmed  me,  and  I  was  able  at  last  to  answer 
Tom's  anxious  questions. 

"  It  is  nothing ;  indeed,  it  is  nothing.  I  am  a  foolish 
coward,  and  I  was  frightened  walking  through  the  city,  and 
then  the  sight  of  a  home-face  upset  me." 

"  But,  Janet,  why  are  you  here  ?  Is  anything  wrong 
about  the  works,  the  men  ?  Did  Mr.  Hammond  send  you 
down  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  no  !  it  was  only  a  fancy  of  mine  to  see  the 
world.  I  am  tired  of  that  lonely  life,  and  you  know  I  am  not 
needed  there.  My  mother  can  get  along  without  me,  and  I 
am  only  a  burden  to  my  father." 

•"  Not  needed  ?    Why,  Janet,  what  will  the  Sandy  country 
be  without  you  ?  " 

My  eyes  filled  up  with  tears  again. 

"  Don't  ask  me  any  more  questions,  dear  Tom ;  only 
help  me  for  a  little  while,  till  I  can  help  myself.  I  want  to 
earn  my  living  somehow,  but  I  have  money  enough  to  live 
upon  till  I  can  find  something  to  do.  Only  find  me  a  place 
to  stay  quietly  in  while  I  am  looking  for  work.  You  are  the 
only  person  I  know  in  this  great  city ;  and  who  will  help 
me,  if  you  do  not  ? " 

"  You  know  I  will  help  you  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul, 
Janet,"  he  said,  his  voice  faltering. 

I  looked  up,  and  in  one  moment  rushed  back  upon  me 
the  remembrance  of  his  words  that  day  in  the  boat,  and  I 
stood  aghast  at  the  new  trouble  that  seemed  to  rise  before 
me.  My  voice  must  have  changed  as  I  said,  — 

"  I  only  want  you  to  find  me  a  place  to  live  in  ;  I  can  take 
care  of  myself";  for  his  countenance  fell,  and  he  sat  silent 
for  sqme  moments. 

At  last  he  spoke  :  — 

"  I  know  I  cannot  do  much,  Janet,  but  what  I  can,  I  will. 
And,  first,  I  will  take  you  to  the  house  of  a  widow-woman 
who  has  a  room  to  let ;  one  of  our  men  wanted  me  to  take 
it,  but  it  was  too  far  from  my  work.  I  went  to  see  the  place, 
though,  and  it  is  quiet  and  respectable ;  the  woman  looks 
19* 


442  A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

kind,  too.  Would  you  walk  slowly  down  the  street,  while  I 
go  to  the  office  and  get  my  coat  ?  "  —  he  was  in  his  working- 
dress,  —  "  and  then  I  '11  join  you." 

I  got  up,  feeling  that  I  had  chilled  him  in  some  way,  and 
reproaching  myself  for  it.  When  he  rejoined  me,  we  walked 
silently  on,  till,  after  many  a  turning,  we  found  ourselves  in 
a  narrow,  quiet  street,  before  a  small  house,  with  a  tiny  yard 
in  front.  I  do  not  know  how  the  matter  was  arranged  ;  he 
did  it  all  for  me.  There  was  the  introducing  me  to  a  moth- 
erly-looking person,  as  a  friend  of  his  from  the  country  ;  the 
going  up  a  narrow  staircase  to  look  at  a  small  room  of 
which  all  that  could  be  said  was  that  it  was  neat  and  clean ; 
the  bargaining  for  my  board,  in  which  I  was  obliged  to  an- 
swer "  Yes  "  and  "  No  "  as  I  could  best  follow  his  lead ; 
and  then  Tom  left  me  with  a  shake  of  the  hand,  and  the  ad- 
vice that  I  should  lie  down  and  rest  after  my  tedious  jour- 
ney ;  he  would  see  me  again  in  the  evening. 

The  quiet  dinner  with  my  landlady,  the  afternoon  rest, 
the  fresh  toilet,  the  sort  of  home-feeling  that  my  room  al- 
ready gave  me,  all  did  their  part  towards  bringing  back  my 
usual  composure  before  Tom  came  in  the  evening;  and 
then,  sitting  by  the  window  in  the  little  parlor,  I  could  talk 
rationally  of  my  plans  for  the  future. 

I  had  money  enough  for  twelve  weeks'  board,  even  if  I 
reserved  ten  dollars  for  other  expenses.  Surely,  in  that 
time  I  could  find  something  to  do.  And  as  to  what  I  should 
do,  I  had  thought  that  all  over  before  I  left  home.  I  might 
find  some  sewing,  or  tend  in  a  store,  or,  perhaps,  —  did  he 
think  I  could  ?  —  I  might  keep  school. 

Tom  would  not  hear  of  my  sewing.  He  knew  poor  girls 
that  worked  their  lives  out  at  that.  I  might  tend  in  a  store, 
if  I  pleased,  but  still  he  did  not  believe  I  would  like  to  be 
tied  to  one  place  for  twelve  hours  in  the  day.  Why  should 
n't  I  keep  school  ?  he  was  sure  I  knew  enough,  I  was  so 
smart,  and  had  read  so  many  books. 

I  shook  my  head.  I  did  not  believe  the  books  I  had  read 
were  the  kind  that  school-mistresses  studied.  Still,  I  could 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.          443 

learn,  and  certainly  I  might  begin  by  teaching  little  children. 
But  where  was  I  to  begin  ? 

"  If  only  we  knew  some  gentleman,  Janet,  some  city-man, 
who  knew  what  to  do  about  such  things." 

Suddenly  a  thought  struck  me. 

"  Tom,  do  you  remember  those  gentlemen  who  came  up 
•to  look  at  the  coal  mines  when  they  were  first  opened  ? 
One  of  them  stayed  at  our  house  two  nights,  and  saw  my 
books,  and  talked  to  me  about  them.  Mr.  Kendall  was  his 
name." 

"  That  's  the  very  man ;  and  a  kind-hearted  gentleman 
he  seemed,  not  stuck  up  or  proud.  I  '11.  find  him  out  for 
you,  Janet,  to-morrow  ;  but  there  's  no  need  of  your  hurry- 
ing yourself  about  going  to  work.  You  must  see  the  city 
and  the  sights." 

And  Tom  grew  enthusiastic  in  describing  to  me  all  that 
was  to  be  seen  in  this  wonderful  place. 

Tom  had  altered,  had  improved  in  appearance  and  man- 
ners, since  he  had  known  something  of  city-life.  I  could 
not  tell  wherein  the  change  lay,  but  I  felt  it.  He  told  me 
of  himself,  —  of  his  rising  to  be  head-man,  a  sort  of  over- 
seer, in  the  coal-yard,  —  of  his  good  wages,  —  of  some  in- 
vestments that  he  had  made  which  had  brought  him  in  good 
returns. 

"  So  you  see,  Janet,  that,  even  if  you  were  not  so  rich 
yourself,  I  have  plenty  of  money  at  your  service." 

I  thanked  him  most  heartily,  and  roused  myself  to  show 
some  interest  in  all  that  concerned  him. 

So  passed  the  rest  of  the  week,  —  quiet  days  with  my 
landlady,  or  in  my  room,  where  I  busied  myself  in  putting 
my  wardrobe  into  better  shape  under  the  direction  of  Mrs. 
Barnum,  and  quiet  walks  and  talks  in  the  evening  with  Tom 
Salyers.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  not  satisfied  with  my 
alleged  motives  for  leaving  home,  but  I  so  steadily  avoided 
all  conversation  on  this  point  that  he  learned  to  respect  my 
silence.  On  Sunday  he  told  me  he  had  found  out  who  Mr. 
Kendall  was. 


444  -d.  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

"  One  of  the  stockholders  of  the  Company,  and  a  good 
man,  they  say.  I  '11  go  to  him  to-morrow,  if  you  say  so,  Ja- 
net, and  ask  him  anything  you  want  to  know." 

"  No,  Tom,  I  shall  go  myself.  It  is  my  business,  and  I 
must  not  let  you  do  so  much  for  me.  If  you  will  go  with 
me,  though,"  —  I  added. 

And  so  the  next  morning  saw  us  at  Mr.  Kendall's  count- 
ing-room. It  was  before  business-hours  :  we  had  cared  for 
that.  We  found  Mr.  Kendall  sitting  leisurely  over'  his 
papers,  his  feet  up  and  his  spectacles  pushed  back.  I  had 
been  nervous  enough  during  the  walk,  but  a  glance  at  his 
face  reassured  me.  It  was  a  good,  a  fatherly  face,  full  of 
bonhommie,  but  showing,  withal,  a  spice  of  business-shrewd- 
ness. I  left  Tom  standing  at  the  counting-room  door,  and, 
taking  my  fate  in  my  own  hands,  walked  forward  and  made 
myself  known. 

"  O  yes  !  the  little  girl  that  Hammond  thought  so  much 
of,  that  he  talks  about  so  often  when  he  is  down  here.  He 
thinks  a  school  or  two  would  bring  the  Sandy  people  out 
and  holds  you  up  as  an  example ;  but,  for  my  part,  I  think 
you  are  an  exception.  There  are  not  many  of  them  that 
one  could  do  much  with." 

I  turned  quickly. 

"This  is  Tom  Salyers,  sir,  head-workman,  overseer,  at 
your  coal-yard,  and  he  is  a  Sandy  man." 

Mr.  Kendall  laughed. 

"  I  see  I  must  not  say  anything  against  the  Sandy  coun- 
try ;  nor  need  I  just  now.  Walk  in,  Mr.  Salyers.  So,  Miss 
Janet,  you  have  come  down  to  seek  your  fortune,  earn  your 
living,  you  say.  I  suppose  Hammond  sent  you  to  me.  Did 
you  bring  me  a  letter  from  him  ?  " 

I  hesitated. 

"  No,  sir.  Mr.  Hammond  was  so  much  occupied  when  I 
came  away  that  I  had  not  seen  him  for  a  day  or  two.  He 
has  friends  staying  with  him." 

"  True  enough.  Mr.  Worthington  has  gone  up  there  with 
his  pretty  daughter  to  see  whether  he  can  allow  her  to  bury 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.  •        445 

herself  in  the  country.  You  saw  Miss  Worthington  ?  Will 
she  be  popular  among  your  people  when  she  is  Mrs.  Ham- 
mond ?  " 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Tom's  face,  and  felt  myself  turning 
pale  as  I  answered,  with  a  composure  that  did  not  seem  to 
come  from  my  own  strength,  — 

"  Miss  Worthington  is  a  very  pleasant-spoken  young  lady. 
The  people  will  like  her,  because  she  seems  to  care  for  them, 
just  as  Mr.  Hammond  does.  But  do  you  think,  sir,  that  you 
could  put  me  in  the  way  of  teaching  school  ?  Could  I  learn 
how  to  do  it?" 

"  Well,  I  am  just  the  right  person  to  come  to,  Miss  Janet, 
for  the  people  have  put  me  on  the  School  Board,  and  —  yes, 
we  shall  want  some  teachers  next  month  in  two  of  the  pri- 
mary departments.  Could  you  wait  a  month  ?  You  might 
be  studying  up  for  your  examination ;  it's  not  much,  but  it 
'11  not  hurt  you  to  go  over  their  arithmetics  and  grammars. 
And  I  must  write  to  Hammond  to-day  about  some  business 
of  the  Company.  I  '11  ask  him  about  your  qualifications, 
and  what  he  thinks,  of  it,  and  we  '11  see  what  can  be  done.  I 
should  not  wonder  if  I  could  get  you  a  place." 

Mr.  Kendall  shook  hands  with  us  both  ;  and,  bidding  him 
good-morning,  with  many  thanks  for  his  kindness,  we  went 
out  We  walked  a  square  silently.  Suddenly  Tom  turned 
to  me :  — 

"  You  did  not  tell  me,  Janet,  of  this  young  lady." 

"  No." 

"  And  is  Mr.  Hammond  going  to  marry  her  ?  " 

The  blood  rushed  to  my  face  till  it  was  crimson  to  the 
very  hair,  while  I  stammered,  — 

"  I  do  not  know,  —  you  heard  Mr.  Kendall." 

Tom's  voice  was  as  gentle  as  a  mother's  in  answer,  but 
his  words  had  little  to  do  with  the  subject,  they  were  almost 
as  incoherent  as  mine,  —  something  about  his  hoping  I 
would  like  living  in  Cincinnati,  that  teaching  would  not  be 
too  tiresome  for  me.  But  from  that  moment  George  Ham- 
mond's name  was  never  mentioned  between  us. 


446  A  Half-Life  and  Half  a  Life. 

I  wrote  that  day  to  my  step-mother,  telling  her  of  my 
plans  and  prospects,  and  that  evening  Tom  brought  me  the 
needed  school-books.  He  had  found  them  by  asking  some 
of  the  men  at  the  yard  whose  children  went  to  the  public 
schools,  and  to  the  study  of  them  I  sat  down  with  a  deter- 
mination that  no  slight  difficulty  could  subdue.  The  next 
week  brought  a  long,  kind  letter  from  Mr.  Hammond,  scold- 
ing me  for  going  as  I  did,  and  declaring  that  he  missed  me 
every  day. 

"  But  more  than  all  shall  I  miss  you,  Janet,  when  I  bring 
Miss  Worthington  back  as  my  wife ;  I  had  depended  so 
upon  you  as  a  companion  for  her.  But  still  it  is  a  good 
thing  for  you  to  see  something  of  the  world,  and  you  are 
bright  enough  to  do  anything  you  set  out  to  do.  I  have 
written  to  Mr.  Kendall  to  do  all  he  can  for  you,  and  with  Tom 
to  take  care  of  you  I  am  sure  you  will  get  along.  I  begin 
to  suspect  that  your  going  away  was  a  thing  contrived  be- 
tween Tom  and  yourself.  Who  knows  how  soon  he  may 
bring  you  back  among  us  to  show  the  Sandy  farmers'  wives 
how  to  live  more  comfortably  than  some  of  them  do  ?  Tom 
has  a  very  pretty  place  below  the  mouth  of  'Blackberry,  if 
you  would  only  show  him  how  to  take  care  of  it." 

There  was  comfort  in  this  letter,  in  spite  of  the  tears  it 
caused  me.  My  secret  was  safe.  Miss  Hammond  had  not 
been  so  cruel,  so  traitorous  to  her  se*x,  as  to  betray  it.  If 
she  had  not  told  it  now,  she  never  would  tell  it,  and  Tom,  if 
he  suspected  it,  was  too  good,  too  noble,  to  whisper  it  even 
to  himself.  So  I  laid  away  my  letter,  and  with  a  lighter 
heart  turned  again  to  my  tasks. 

And  now  three  months  have  passed,  for  two  of  which  I 
have  been  teaching.  There  are  difficulties,  yes,  and  there  is 
hard  work;  but  I  can  manage  the  children.  I  have  the 
tact,  the  character,  the  gift,  that  nameless  something  which 
gives  one  person  control  over  others  ;  and  for  the  studies, 
they  are  as  yet  a  pleasure  to  me.  I  see  how  they  will  lead  me 
on  to  other  knowledge,  how  I  may  bring  into  form  and  make 
available  my  desultory  reading,  and  there  is  a  great  pleasure 


A  Half -Life  and  Half  a  Life.  447 

in  the  very  study  itself.  And  for  the  rest,  if  my  great  grief 
is  never  out  of  mind,  if  it  is  always  present  to  me,  at  least  I 
can  put  it  back,  behind  my  daily  occupations  and  interests. 
I  begin,  too,  to  see  dimly  that  there  are  other  things  in  life 
for  a  woman  to  whom  the  light  of  life  is  denied.  My  heart 
will  always  be  lonely ;  but  how  much  there  is  to  live  for  in  my 
mind,  my  tastes,  my  love  for  the  beautiful !  My  little  room 
has  taken  another  aspect.  I  have  so  few  wants  that  I  can 
readily  devote  part  of  my  earnings  to  gratifying  myself  with 
books,  pictures.  Such  lovely  prints  as  I  find  in  the  print- 
shops  !  and  the  flowers,  —  Tom  Salyers,  who  is  as  kind  as  a 
brother,  brings  me  them  from  the  market.  And  then  every- 
thing is  so  new  to  me ;  there  is  so  much  in  life  to  see,  to 
know.  No,  I  will  not  be  unhappy ;  happy  I  suppose  I  can 
never  be,  but  I  have  strength  and  courage,  and  a  will  to  rise 
above  this  sorrow  which  once  crushed  me  to  the  ground. 
When  I  wrote  the  bitter  words  with  which  this  record  be- 
gins, I  wronged  the  kind  hearts  that  are  around  me,  I 
lacked  faith  in  that  world  wherein  I  have  found  help  and 
comfort. 


THE  MAN  WITHOUT  A   COUNTRY. 


SUPPOSE  that  very  few  casual  readers  of  the 
New  York  Herald  of  August  I3th  observed,  in 
an   obscure   corner,    among    the   "  Deaths "  the 
announcement,  — 

L"  NOLAN.     Died,  on  board  U.  S.  Corvette  Levant,  Lat  2°  u    I 
.,  Long.  131°  W.,  on  the  nth  of  May,  PHILIP  NOLAN."          r— * 

I  happened  to  observe  it,  because  I  was  stranded  at  the 
old  Mission-House  in  Mackinaw,  waiting  for  a  Lake-Supe- 
rior steamer  which  did  not  choose  to  come,  and  I  was  devour- 
ing to  the  very  stubble  all  the  current  literature  I  could  get 
hold  of,  even  down  to  the  deaths  and  marriages  in  the  Her- 
ald. My  memory  for  names  and  people  is  good,  and  the 
reader  will  see,  as  he  goes  on,  that  I  had  reason  enough  to 
remember  Philip  Nolan.  There  are  hundreds  of  readers 
who  would  have  paused  at  that  announcement,  if  the  officer 
of  the  Levant  who  reported  it  had  chosen  to  make  it  thus  : 
—  "Died,  May  nth,  THE  MAN  WITHOUT  A  COUNTRY." 
For  it  was  as  "  The  Man  without  a  Country "  that  poor 
Philip  Nolan  had  generally  been  known  by  the  officers  who 
had  him  in  charge  during  some  fifty  years,  as,  indeed,  by  all 
the  men  who  sailed  under  them.  I  dare  say  there  is  many 
a  man  who -has  taken  wine  with  him  once  a  fortnight,  in  a 
three  years'  cruise,  who  never  knew  that  his  name  was 
"  Nolan,"  or  whether  the  poor  wretch  had  any  name  at  all. 

There  can  now  be  no  possible  harm  in  telling  this  poor 
creature's  story.  Reason  enough  there  has  been  till  now, 


The  Man  withoiit  a  Country.  449 

ever  since  Madison's  Administration  went  out  in  1817,  for 
very  strict  secrecy,  the  secrecy  of  honor  itself,  among  the 
gentlemen  of  the  navy  who  have  had  Nolan  in  successive 
charge.  And  certainly  it  speaks  well  for  the  esprit  de  corps 
of  th«  profession  and  the  personal  honor  of  its  members,  that 
to  the  press  this  man's  story  has  been  wholly  unknown, 
—  and,  I  think,  to  the  country  at  large  also.  I  have  reason 
to  think,  from  some  investigations  I  made  in  the  Naval 
Archives  when  I  was  attached  to  the  Bureau  of  Construc- 
tion, that  every  official  report  relating  to  him  was  burned 
when  Ross  burned  the  public  buildings  at  Washington. 
One  of  the  Tuckers,  or  possibly  one  of  the  Watsons,  had 
Nolan  in  charge  at  the  end  of  the  war;  and  when,  on 
returning  from  his  cruise,  he  reported  at  Washington  to  one 
of  the  Crowninshields, — who  was  in  the  Navy  Department 
when  he  came  home, — he  found  that  the  Department 
ignored  the  whole  business.  Whether  they  really  knew 
nothing  about  it,  or  whether  it  was  £  "  Ncni  mi  ricordo" 
determined  on  as  a  piece  of  policy,  I  do  not  know.  But 
this  I  do  know,  that  since  1817,  and  possibly  before,  no 
naval  officer  has  mentioned  Nolan  in  his  report  of  a 
cruise. 

But,  as  I  say,  there*  is  no  need  for  secrecy  any  longer.. 
And  now  the  poor  creature  is  dead,  it  seems  to  me  worth 
while  to  tell  a  little  of  his  story,  by  way  of  showing  young 
Americans  of  to-day  what  it  is  to  be 

A    MAN    WITHOUT    A    COUNTRY. 
/ 

Philip  Nolan  was  as  fine  a  young  officer  as  there  was  in 

the  "  Legion  of  the  West,"  as  the  Western  division  of. 
our  army  was  then  called.  A  When  Aaron  Burr  made  his 
first  dashing  expedition  down  to  New  Orleans  in  1805,  at 
Fort  Massac,  or  somewhere  above  on  the  river, fhe  met, 
as  the  Devil  would  have  it,  this  gay,  dashing,  bright  young 
fellow,  at  9lAfce  dinner-part)^ttMk>  Burr  marked  him, 
talked  to  him,  walked  with  him,  took  him  a  day  or  two's 

cc 


45 o  The  Man  without  a  Country. 

voyage  in  his  flat-boat,  and,  in  short,  fascinated  him.  For 
the  next  year,  barrack-life  was  very  tame  to  poor  Nolani" 
He  occasionally  availed  of  the  permission  the  great  man 
had  given  him  to  write  to  him.  Long,  high-worded,  stilted 
letters  the  poor  boy  wrote  and  rewrote  and  copied.  9  But 
never  a  line  did  he  have  in  reply  from  the  gay  deceiverJ 
The  other  boys  in  the  garrison  sneered  at  him,  because  he 
sacrificed  in  this  unrequited  affection  for  a  politician  the 
time  which  they  devoted  to  Monongahela,  sledge,  and  high- 
low-jack.  Bourbon,  euchre,  and  poker  were  still  unknown. 
But  one  day  Nolan  had  his  revenge.  This  time  Burr  came 
down  the  river,  not  as  an  attorney  seeking  a  place  for  his 
office,  but  as  a  disguised  conqueror.  He  had  defeated  I 
know  not  how  many  district-attorneys ;  he  had  dined  at  I 
know  not  how  many  public  dinners  ;  he  had  been  heralded 
in  I  know  not  how  many  Weekly  Arguses,  and  it  was  ru- 
mored that  hp  had  an^army  behind  him  and  an  empire 
before  him^f|00<Jufl^r  great  day^^Rifi  n i-ruml  —  to  poor 
Nolan.  Burr  had  not  been  at  the  fort  an  hour  before  he 
sent  for  him.  f  That  evening  he  asked  Nolan  to  take  him 
out  in  his  skiff,  to  show  him  a  canebrake  or  a  cotton-wood 
tree,  as  hers»M,  —  *HK%  to  pocUiM  h«»  ;  and  by  the  time 
the  sail  was  over,  Nolan  was  enlisted  body  and  soulJ^From 
that  time,  though  he  did  not  yet  know  it,  he  lived  as  A  MAN 

WITHOUT  A  COUNTRY. 

What  Burr  meant  to  do  I  know  no  more  than  you,  dear 
reader.  It  is  none  of  our  business  just  now.  Only,  when 
the  grand  catastrophe  came,  and  Jefferson  and  the  House  of 
Virginia  of  that  day  undertook  to  break  on  the  wheel  all  the 
jxtssible  Clarences  of  the  then  House  of  York,  by  the  great 
-^treason-trial  at  Richmond,  some  of  the  lesser  fry  in  that 
distant  Mississippi  Valleyjwhrcirwas  iartnef  from  us  than 
Puget's  Sound  is  to-day,  introduced  the  like  novelty  on  their 
provincial  stage,  and,  to  while  away  the  monotony  of  the 
summer  at  Fort  Adams,  got  up,  for  spectacles,  a  string  of 
court-rnartials  on  the  'flffi^S*  there.  I  One  and  another  of 
the  colonels  and  majors  were  tried,  and,  to  fill  out  the  list, 


The  Man  wit/tout  a  Country.  451 

little  Nolan,  against  whom,  Heaven  knows,  there  was  evi- 
dence enough,  —  that  he  was  sick  of  the  service,  had  been 
willing  to  be  false  to  it,  and  would  have  obeyed  any  order 
to  march  any-whither  with  any  one  who  would  follow  him, 
had  the  order  only  been  signed,  "  By  command  of  His  Exc. 
A.  Burr. "2J The  courts  dragged  on.  The  big  flies  escaped. 
—  rightly  for  all  I  know.  I^Nolan  was  proved  guilty  enough^ 


as  I  say  ;  yet  you  and  I  would  never  have  heard  of  him, 
HMM!W%  but  that,  when  the  president  of  the  court  asked  him 
at  the  close,  whether  he  wished  to  say  anything  to  show  that 
he  had  always  been  faithful  to  the  United  States,  he  cried 
out,  in  a  fit  of  frenzy,  — 

"  DH-mthe  United  States  !  I  wish  I  may  never  hear  of 
the  United  States  again  !  " 

I  suppose  he  did  not  know  how  the  words  shocked  old 
Colonel  Morgan,  who  was  holding  the  courlj  Half  the  offi- 
cers who  sat  in  it  had  served  through  the  Revolution,  and 
their  lives,  not  to  say  their  necks,  had  been  risked  for  the 
very  idea  which  he  so  cavalierly  cursed  in  his  madness. 
He,  on  his  part,  had  grown  up  in  the  West  of  those  days,  in 
the  midst  of  "  Spanish  plot,"  "  Orleans  plot,"  and  all  the 
rest.  He  had  been  educated  on  a  plantation  where  the 
finest  company  was  a  Spanish  officer  or  a  French  merchant 
from  Orleans.  His  education,  such  as  it  was,  had  been  per- 
fected in  commercial  expeditions  to  Vera  Cruz,  and  I  think 
he  told  me  his  father  once  hired  an  Englishman  to  be  a  pri- 
vate tutor  for  a  winter  on  the  plantation.  He  had  spent 
half  his  youth  with  an  older  brother,  hunting  horses  in  Tex- 
as ;  and,  in  a  word,  to  him  "  United  States  "  was  scarcely 
a  reality.  Yet  he  had  been  fed  by  "  United  States  "  for  all 
the  years  since  he  had  been  in  the  army.  He  had  sworn  on 
his  faith  as  a  Christian  to  be  true  to  "  United  States."  It 
was  "  United  States  "  which  gave  him  the  uniform  he  wore, 
and  the  sword  by  his  side.  *ti|£,  ^|»*Jffor  Nolan,  it  was 
only  because  "  United  States  "  had  picftd  you  out  first  as 
one  of  her  own  confidential  men  of  honor  that  "  A.  Burr  " 
cared  for  you  a  straw  more  than  for  the  flat-boat  men  who. 


452  The  Man  without  a  Country. 

sailed  his  ark  for  him.  I  do  not  excuse  Nolan ;  I  only  ex- 
plain to  the  reader  why  he  damned  his  country,  and  wished 
he  might  never  hear  her  name  againTJ 

i     He  never  did  hear  her  name  but  once  again.     From  that 

/moment,  September  23,  1807,  till  the  day  he  died,  May  n, 

ji863,  he  never  heard  her  name  again.    For  that  half-century 

,  and  more  he  was  a  man  without  a  country.^ 

r*  Old  Morgan,  as  I  said,  was  terribly  shocked.     If  Nolan 

had  compared  George  Washington  to  Benedict  Arnold,  or 

had  cried,"  God  save  King  George,"  Morgan  would  not  have 

felt  worse.     He  called  the  court  into  his  private  room,  and 

returned  in  fifteen  minutes,  with  a  face  like  a  sheet,  to 

say,— 

"  Prisoner,  hear  the  sentence  of  the  Court !  The  Court 
decides,  subject  to  the  approval  of  the  President,  that  you 
never  hear  the  name  of  the  United  States  again." 

Nolan  laughed.  But  nobody  else  laughed.  Old  Morgan 
was  too  solemn,  and  the  whole  room  was  hushed  dead  as 
night  for  a  minute.  Even  Nolan  lost  his  swagger  in  a  mo- 
ment. Then  Morgan  added,  — . 

"  Mr.  Marshal,  take  the  prisoner  to  Orleans  in  an  armed 
L    boat,  and  deliver  him  to  the  naval  commander  there." 

The  Marshal  gave  his  orders  and  the  prisoner  was  taken 
out  of  court. 

"  Mr.  Marshal,"  continued  old  Morgan,  "  see  that  no  one 
mentions  the  United  States  to  the  prisoner.  Mr.  Marshal, 
make  my  respects  to  Lieutenant  Mitchell  at  Orleans,  and 
request  him  to  order  that  no  one  shall  mention  the  United 
States  to  the  prisoner  while  he  is  on  board  ship.  You  will 
receive  your  written  orders  from  the  officer  on  duty  here  this 
evening.  The  court  is  adjourned  without  day." 

I  have  always  supposed  that  Colonel  Morgan  himself  took 
the  proceedings  of  the  court  to  Washington  City,  and  ex- 
plained them  to  Mr.  Jefferson.  Certain  it  is  that  the  Presi- 
dent approved  them,  —  certain,  that  is,  if  I  may  believe  the 
men  who  say  they  have  seen  his  signature.  Before  the 
Nautilus  got  round  from  New  Orleans  to  the  Northern  At- 


The  Man  without  a  Country.  453 

lantic  coast  with  the  prisoner  on  board,  the  sentence  had 
been  approved,  and  he  was  a  man  without  a  country. 

The  plan  then  adopted  was  substantially  the  same  which 
was  necessarily  followed  ever  after.  Perhaps  it  was  sug- 
gested by  the  necessity  of  sending  him  by  water  from  Fort 
Adams  and  Orleans.  The  Secretary  of  the  Navy  —  it  must 
have  been  the  first  Crowninshield,  though  he  is  a  man  I  do 
not  remember  —  was  requested  to  put  Nolan  on  board  a  Gov- 
ernment vessel  bound  on  a  long  cruise,  and  to  direct  that  he 
should  be  only  so  far  confined  there  as  to  make  it  certain 
that  he  never  saw  or  heard  of  the  country.  We  had  few 
long  cruises  then,  and  the  navy  was  very  much  out  of  fa- 
vor ;  and  as  almost  all  of  this  story  is  traditional,  as  I  have 
explained,  I  do  not  know  certainly  what  his  first  cruise 
was.  But  the  commander  to  whom  he  was  intrusted, — 
perhaps  it  was  Tingey  or  Shaw,  though  I  think  it  was  one 
of  the  younger  men,  —  we  are  all  old  enough  now  —  regu- 
lated the  etiquette  and  the  precautions  of  the  affair,  and  ac- 
cording to  his  scheme  they  were  carried  out,  I  suppose,  till 
Nolan  died. 

When  I  was  second  officer  of  the  Intrepid,  some  thirty 
years  after,  I  saw  the  original  paper  of  instructions.  I  have 
been  sorry  ever  since  that  I  did  not  copy  the  whole  of  it. 
It  ran,  however,  much  in  this  way :  — 

"  Washington?  (with  the  date,  which 
r»  must  have  been  late  in  1807.) 

i  "Sm,  —  You  will  receive  from  Lieutenant  Neale  the  per- 
son of  Philip  Nolan,  late  a  Lieutenant  in  the  United  States 
Army. 

"  This  person  on  his  trial  by  court-martial  expressed  with 
an  oath  the  wish  that  he  might  '  never  hear  of  the  United 
States  again.' 

"  The  Court  sentenced  him  to  have  his  wish  fulfilled. 

"  For  the  present  the  execution  of  the  order  is  intrusted 
by  the  President  to  this  department. 

"  You  \Vill  take  the  prisoner  on  board  your  ship,  and  keep 
him  there  with  such  precautions  as  shall  prevent  his  escape. 


454  The  Man  without  a  Country. 

"You  will  provide  him  with  such  quarters,  rations,  and 
clothing  as  would  be  proper  for  an  officer  of  his  late  rank, 
if  he  were  a  passenger  on  your  vessel  on  the  business  of  his 
Government  J  jJG& 

"  The  gentlemen  on  board  will  make  any  arrangements 
agreeable  to  themselves  regarding  his  society.  He  is  to  be 
exposed  to  no  indignity  of  any  kind,  nor  is  he  ever  unneces- 
sarily to  be  reminded  that  he  is  a  prisoner. 

"  But  under  no  circumstances  is  he  ever  to  hear  of  his 
country  or  to  see  any  information  regarding  it ;  and  you  will 
specially  caution  all  the  officers  under  your  command  to  take 
care,  that,  in  the  various  indulgences  which  may  be  granted, 
this  rule,  in  which  .his  punishment  is  involved,  shall  not  be 
broken. 

"It  is  the  intention  of  the  Government  that  he  shall  never 
again  see  the  country  which  he  has  disowned.  Before  the 
end  of  your  cruise  you  will  receive  orders  which  will  give 
effect  to  this  intention. 

/"  Respectfully  yours, 

"W.  SOUTHARD,  for  the 

Secretary  of  the  Navy."J 

If  I  had  only  preserved  the  whole  of  this  paper,  there 
would  be  no  break  in  the  beginning  of  my  sketch  of  this 
story.  For  Captain  Shaw,  if  it  was  he,  handed  it  to  his  suc- 
cessor in  the  charge,  and  he  to  his,  and  I  suppose  the  com- 
mander of  the  Levant  has  it  to-day  as  his  authority  for 
keeping  this  man  in  this  mild  custody. 

The  rule  adopted  on  board  the  ships  on  which  I  have  met 
"the  man  without  a  country"  was,  I  think,  transmitted 
from  the  beginning.  No  mess  liked  to  have  him  perma- 
nently, because  his  presence  cut  off  all  talk  of  home  or  of 
the  prospect  of  return,  of  politics  or  letters,  of  peace  or  of 
war,  —  cut  off  more  than  half  the  talk  men  like  to  have  at 
sea.  But  it  was  always  thought  too  hard  that  he  should 
never  meet  the  rest  of  us,  except  to  touch  hats,  and  we 
finally  sank  into  one  system.  He  was  not  permitted  to 


The  Man  without  a  Country.  455 

talk  with  the  men,  unless  an  officer  was  by.  With  officers 
he  had  unrestrained  intercourse,  as  far  as  they  and  he  chose. 
But  he  grew  shy,  though  he  had  favorites :  I  was  one. 
Then  the  captain  always  asked  him  to  dinner  on  Monday. 
Every  mess  in  succession  took  up  the  invitation  in  its  turn. 
According  to  the  size  of  the  ship,  you  had  him  at  your  mess 
more  or  less  often  at  dinner.  His  breakfast  he  ate  in  his 
own  state-room,  —  he  always  had  a  state-room,  —  which  was 
where  a  sentinel,  or  somebody  on  the  watch,  could  see  the 
door.  And  whatever  else  he  ate  or  drank  he  ate  or  drank 
alone.  Sometimes,  when  the  marines  or  sailors  had  any 
special  jollification,  they  were  permitted  to  invite  "  Plain- 
Buttons,"  as  they  called  him.  Then  Nolan  was  sent  with 
some  officer,  and  the  men  were  forbidden  to  speak  of  home 
while  he  was  there.  I  believe  the  theory  was  that  the  sight  of 
his  punishment  did  them  good.  They  called  him  "  Plain-But- 
tons," because,  while  he  always  chose  to  wear  a  regulation 
army-uniform,  he  was  not  permitted  to  wear  the  army-but- 
ton, for  the  reason  that  it  bore  either  the  initials  or  the  in- 
signia of  the  country  he  had  disowned. 

I  remember,  soon  after  I  joined  the  navy,  I  was  on  shore 
with  some  of  the  older  officers  from  our  ship  and  from  the 
Brandywine,  which  we  had  met  at  Alexandria.  We  had 
leave  to  make  a  party  and  go  up  to  Cairo  and  the  Pyramids. 
As  we  jogged  along,  (you  went  on  donkeys  then,)  some  of 
the  gentlemen  (we  boys  called  them  "  Dons,"  but  the  phrase 
was  long  since  changed)  fell  to  talking  about  Nolan,  and 
some  one  told  the  system  which  was  adopted  from  the  first 
about  his  books  and  other  reading.  As  he  was  almost 
never  permitted  to  go  on  shore,  even  though  the  vessel  lay 
in  port  for  months,  his  time,  at  the  best,  hung  heavy ;  and 
everybody  was  permitted  to  lend  him  books,  if  they  were 
not  published  in  America  and  made  no  allusion  to  it.  These 
were  common  enough  in  the  old  days,  when  people  in  the 
other  hemisphere  talked  of  the  United  States  as  little  as  we 
do  of  Paraguay.  He  had  almost  all  the  foreign  papers  that 
came  into  the  ship,  sooner  or  later ;  only  somebody  must  go 


45 6  The  Man  without  a  Country. 

over  them  first,  and  cut  out  any  advertisement  or  stray 
paragraph  that  alluded  to  America.  This  was  a  little  cruel 
sometimes,  when  the  back  of  what  was  cut  out  might  be  as 
innocent  as  Hesiod.  Right  in  the  midst  of  one  of  Napole- 
on's battles,  or  one  of  Canning's  speeches,  poor  Nolan  would 
find  a  great  hole,  because  on  the  back  of  the  page  of  that 
paper  there  had  been  an  advertisement  of  a  packet  for  New 
York,  or  a  scrap  from  the  President's  message.  I  say  this 
was  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  of  this  plan,  which  after- 
wards I  had  enough,  and  more  than  enough,  to  do  with.  I 
remember  it,  because  poor  Phillips,  who  was  of  the  party, 
as  soon  as  the  allusion  to  reading  was  made,  told  a  story  of 
something  which  happened  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  on 

plolan's  first  voyage  ;  and  it  is  the  only  thing  I  ever  knew 
of  that  voyage.  They  had  touched  at  the  Cape,  and  had 
done  the  civil  thing  with  the  English  Admiral  and  the  fleet, 
and  then,  leaving  for  a  long  cruise  up  the  Indian  Ocean, 

fPhillips  had  borrowed  a  lot  of  English  books  from  an  offi- 
cer^Jvhich,  in  those  days,  as  indeed  in  these,  was  quite  a 
windfall.  Among  them,  as  the  Devil  would  order,  was  the 
"  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  which  they  had  all  of  them 
heard  of,  but  which  most  of  them  had  never  seen.  I  think 
it  could  not  have  been  published  long.  Well,  nobody 
thought  there  could  be  any  risk  of  anything  national  in 
that,  though  Phillips  swore  old  Shaw  had  cut  out  the 
"  Tempest  "  from  Shakespeare  before  he  let  Nolan  have  it, 
because  he  said  "  the  Bermudas  ought  to  be  ours,  and,  by 
Jove,  should  be  one  day."  So  jjolan  was  permitted  to  join 
the  circle  one  afternoon  when  a  lot  of  them  sat  on  deck 
smoking  and  reading  aloud^j  People  do  not  do  such  things 
so  often  now  ;  but  when  I  was  young  we  got  rid  of  a  great 
deal  of  time  so.  Well,  soffThappened  that  in  his  turn  No- 
lan took  the  book  and  reacrto  the  others  ;  and  he  read  very 
welf/las  I  know.  Nobody  in  the  circle  knew  a  line  of  the 
poem,  only  it  was  all  magic  and  Border  chivalry,  and  was 
ten  thousand  years  ago.  Poor  Nolan  read  steadily  through 
the  fifth  canto,  stopped  a  minute  and  drank  something,  and 
then  began,  without  a  thought  of  what  was  coming,  — 


The  Man  without  a  Country.  457 

"  Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said,"  — 

It  seems  impossible  to  us  that  anybody  ever  heard  this  for 
the  first  time ;  but  all  these  fellows  did  then,  and  poor  No- 
lan himself  went  on,  still  unconsciously  or  mechanically,  — 

"  This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ! " 

Then  they  all  saw  something  was  to  pay ;  but  he  expected 
to  get  through,  I  suppose,  turned  a  little  pale,  but  plunged 
on,— 

"  Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ?  —  . 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well." 

By  this  time  the  men  were  all  beside  themselves,  wishing 
there  was  any  way  to  make  him  turn  over  two  pages ;  but 
he  had  not  quite  presence  of  mind  for  that ;  he  gagged  a 
little,  colored  crimson,  and  staggered  on,  — 

"  For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim, 
Despite  these  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self,"  — 

and  here  the  poor  fellow  choked,  could  not  go  on,  but 
started  up,  swung  the  book  into  the  sea,  vanished  into  his 
state -roomJU and  by  Jove,", said  Phillips,  "we  did  not  see 
him  for  two  months  again.  And  I  had  to  make  up  some 
beggarly  story  to  that  English  surgeon  why  I  did  not  return 
his  Walter  Scott  to  him." 

That  story  shows  about  the  time  when  Nolan's  bragga- 
docio must  have  broken  down.  At  first,  they  said,  he  took 
a  very  high  tone,  considered  his  imprisonment  a  mere  farce, 
affected  to  enjoy  the  voyage,  and  all  that ;  but  Phillips  said 
that  after  he  came  out  of  his  state-room  he  never  was  the 
same  man  again.  jHe  never  read  aloud  again,  unless  it  was 
the  Bible  or  Shakespeare,  or  something  else  he  was  sure  of. 
But  it  was  not  that  merely.  ^He  never  entered  in  with  the 


458  The  Man  'without  a  Country. 

other  young  men  exactly  as  a  companion  again.  He  was 
always  shy  afterwards,  when  I  knew  him, — very  seldom 
spoke,  unless  he  was  spoken  to,  except  to  a  very  few  friends. 
He  lighted  up  occasionally,!—  I  remember  late  in  his  life 
hearing  him  fairly  eloquentfon  something  which  had  been 
suggested  to  him  by  one  of  Fldchier's  sermons, — but  gen- 
erally he  had  the  nervous,  tired  look  of  a  heart-wounded 
man. 

When  Captain  Shaw  was  coming  home,  —  if,  as  I  £ay,  it 
was  Shaw,  —  rather  to  the  surprise  of  everybody  they  made 
one  of  the  Windward  Islands,  and  lay  off  and  on  for  nearly 
a  week.  The  boys  said  the  officers  were  sick  of  salt-junk, 
and  meant  to  have  turtle-soup  before  they  came  home.  But 
after  several  days  the  Warren  came  to  the  same  rendezvous  ; 
they  exchanged  signals  ;  she  sent  to  Phillips  and  these 
homeward-bound  men  letters  and  papers,  and  told  them  she 
was  outward-bound,  perhaps  to  the  Mediterranean,  and 
took  poor  Nolan  and  his  traps  on  the  boat  back  to  try  his 
second  cruise.  He  looked  very  blank  when  he  was  told  to 
get  ready  to  join  her.  He  had  known  enough  of  the  signs 
of  the  sky  to  know  that  till  that  moment  he  was  going 
"  home."  But  this  was  a  distinct  evidence  of  something  he 
had  not  thought  of,  perhaps,  —  that  there  was  no  going 
home  for  him,  even  to  a  prison.  |And  this  was  the  first  of 
some  twenty  such  transfers,  ^vhich  brought  him  sooner  or 
later  into  half  our  best  vessels,  l^ut  which  kept  him  all  his  life 
at  least  some  hundred  miles  from  the  country  he  had  hoped 
he  might  never  hear  of  again/ 

It  may  have  been  on  that  second  cruise, — it  was  once 
when  he  was  up  the  Mediterranean,  —  that  Mrs.  Graff,  the 
celebrated  Southern  beauty  of  those  days,  danced  with  him. 
They  had  been  lying  a  long  time  in  the  Bay  of  Naples,  and 
the  officers  were  very  intimate  in  the  English  fleet,  and 
there  had  been  great  festivities,  and  our  men  thought  they 
must  give  a  great  ball  on  board  the  ship.  How  they  ever 
did  it  on  board  the  Warren  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know.  Per- 
haps it  was  not  the  Warren,  or  perhaps  ladies  did  not  take 


The  Man  without  a  Country.  459 

up  so  much  room  as  they  do  now.  They  wanted  to  use 
Nolan's  state-room  for  something,  and  they  hated  to  do  it 
without  asking  him  to  the  ball ;  so  the  captain  said  they 
might  ask  him,  if  they  would  be  responsible  that  he  did  not 
talk  with  the  wrong  people,  "who  would  give  him  intelli- 
gence." So  the  dance  went  on,  the  finest  party  that  had 
ever  been  known,  I  dare  say ;  for  I  never  heard  of  a  man- 
of-war  ball  that  was  not.  For  ladies  they  had  the  family  of 
the  'American  consul,  one  or  two  travellers  who  had  adven- 
tured so  far,  and  a  nice  bevy  of  English  girls  and  matrons, 
perhaps  Lady  Hamilton  herself. 

Well,  different  officers  relieved  each  other  in  standing  and 
talking  with  Nolan  in  a  friendly  way,  so  as  to  be  sure  that 
nobody  else  spoke  to  him.  The  dancing  went  on  with  spirit, 
and  after  a  while  even  the  fellows  who  took  this  honorary 
guard  of  Nolan  ceased  to  fear  any  contre-temps.  Only  when 
some  English  lady  —  Lady  Hamilton,  as  I  said,  perhaps  — 
called  for  a  set  of  "  American  dances,"  an  odd  thing  hap- 
pened. Everybody  then  danced  contra-dances.  The  black 
band,  nothing  loath,  conferred  as  to  what  "American 
dances"  were,  and  started  off  with  "Virginia  Reel,"  which 
they  followed  with  "  Money-Musk,"  which,  in  its  turn  in 
those  days,  should  have  been  followed  by  "  The  Old  Thir- 
teen." But  just  as  Dick,  the  leader,  tapped  for  his  fiddles 
to  begin,  and  bent  forward,  about  to  say,  in  true  negro 
state,  "'The  Old  Thirteen,'  gentlemen  and  ladies  ! "  as  he 
had  said  " '  Virginny  Reel,'  if  you  please  !  "  and  " '  Money- 
Musk,'  if  you  please  !  "  the  captain's  boy  tapped  him  on  the 
shoulder,  whispered  to  him,  and  he  did  not  announce  the 
name  of  the  dance  ;  he  merely  bowed,  began  on  the  air,  and 
they  all  fell  to,  —  the  officers  teaching  the  English  girls  the 
figure,  but  not  telling  them  why  it  had  no  name. 

But  that  is  not  the  story  I  started  to  tell.  —  As  the  dan- 
cing went?  on,  Nolan  and  our  fellows  all  got  at  ease,  as  I  said, 
—  so  much  so,  that  it  seemed  quite  natural  for  him  to  bow  to 
that  splendid  Mrs.  Graff,  and  say, — 

"  I  hope  you  have  not  forgotten  me,  Miss  Rutledge. 
Shall  I  have  the  honor  of  dancing  ?  " 


460  The  Man  without  a  Country. 

He  did  it  so  quickly,  that  Fellows,  who  was  by  him,  could 
not  hinder  him.  She  laughed,  and  said,  — 

"  I  am  not  Miss  Rutledge  any  longer,  Mr.  Nolan ;  but  I 
will  dance  all  the  same,"  just  nodded  to  Fellows,  as  if  to  say 
he  must  leave  Mr.  Nolan  to  her,  and  led  him  off  to  the  place 
where  the  dance  was  forming. 

Nolan  thought  he  had  got  his  chance.  He  had  known 
her  at  Philadelphia,  and  at  other  places  had  met  her,  and 
this  was  a  Godsend.  You  could  not  talk  in  contra-darices, 
as  you  do  in  cotillons,  or  even  in  the  pauses  of  waltzing ; 
but  there  were  chances  for  tongues  and  sounds,  as  well  as 
for  eyes  and  blushes.  He  began  with  her  travels,  and 
Europe,  and  Vesuvius,  and  the  French ;  and  then,  when 
they  had  worked  down,  and  had  that  long  talking-time  at 
the  bottom  of  the  set,  he  said,  boldly,  —  a  little  pale,  she 
said,  as  she  told  me  the  story,  years  after,  — 

"And  what  do  you  hear  from  home,  Mrs.  Graff? " 

And  that  splendid  creature  looked  through  him.  Jove ! 
how  she  must  have  looked  through  him  ! 

"  Home  ! !  Mr.  Nolan  ! !  !  I  thought  you  were  the  man 
who  never  wanted  to  hear  of  home  again!"  —  and  she 
walked  directly  up  the  deck  to  her  husband,  and  left  poor 
Nolan  alone,  as  he  always  was.  —  He  did  not  dance 
again. 

I  cannot  give  any  history  of  him  in  order ;  nobody  can 
now :  and,  indeed,  I  am  not  trying  to.  These  are  the  tra- 
ditions, which  I  sort  out,  as  I  believe  them,  from  the  myths 
which  have  been  told  about  this  man  for  forty  years.  The 
lies  that  have  been  told  about  him  are  legion.  The  fellows 
used  to  say  he  was  the  "  Iron  Mask  " ;  and  poor  George 
Pons  went  to  his  grave  in  the  belief  that  this  was  the  author 
of  "Junius,"  who  was  being  punished  for  his  celebrated 
libel  on  Thomas  Jefferson.  Pons  was  not  very  strong  in  the 
historical  line.  A  happier  story  than  either  of  th|s|  I  have 
told  is  of  the  War.  That  came  along  soon  after.  I  have  heard 
this  affair  told  in  three  or  four  ways,  —  and,  indeed,  it  may 
have  happened  more  than  once.  But  which  ship  it  was  on  I 


The  Man  without  a  Country.  461 

cannot  tell.  However,  in  one,  at  least,  of  the  great  frigate- 
duels  with  the  English,  in  which  the  navy  was  really  baptized, 
it  happened  that  a  round-shot  from  the  enemy  entered  one  of 
our  ports  square,  and  took  right  down  the  officer  of  the  gun 
himself,  and  almost  every  man  of  the  gun's  crew.  Now  you 
may  say  what  you  choose  about  courage,  but  that  is  not  a 
nice  thing  to  see.  But,  as  the  men  who  were  not  killed 
picked  themselves  up,  and  as  they  and  the  surgeon's  people 
were  carrying  off  the  bodies,  there  appeared  Nolan,  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  with  the  rammer  in  his  hand,  and,  just  as  if  he 
had  been  the  officer,  told  them  off  with  authority,  —  who 
should  go  to  the  cockpit  with  the  wounded  men,  who  should 
stay  with  him,  —  perfectly  cheery,  and  with  that  way  which 
makes  men  feel  sure  all  is  right  and  is  going  to  be  right. 
And  he  finished  loading  the  gun  with  his  own  hands,  aimed 
it,  and  bade  the  men  fire.  And  there  he  stayed,  captain  of 
that  gun,  keeping  those  fellows  in  spirits,  till  the  enemy 
struck,  —  sitting  on  the  carriage  while  the  gun  was  cooling, 
though  he  was  exposed  all  the  time,  —  showing  them  easier 
ways  to  handle  heavy  shot,  —  making  the  raw  hands  laugh 
at  their  own  blunders,  —  and  when  the  gun  cooled  again, 
getting  it  loaded  and  fired  twice  as  often  as  any  other  gun 
on  the  ship.  The  captain  walked  forward  by  way  of  encour- 
aging the  men,  and  Nolan  touched  his  hat  and  said,  — 

"  I  am  showing  them  how  we  do  this  in  the  artillery, 
sir." 

And  this  is  the  part  of  the  story  where  all  the  legends 
agree  ;  that  the  Commodore  said,  — 

"I  see  you  do,  and  I  thank  you,  sir;  and  I  shall  never- 
forget  this  day,  sir,  and  you  never  shall,  sir." 

And  after  the  whole  thing  was  over,  and  he  had  the 
Englishman's  sword,  in  the  midst  of  the  state  and  cere- 
mony of  the  quarter-deck,  he  said,  — 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Nolan  ?    Ask  Mr.  Nolan  to  come  here." 

And  when  Nolan  came,  the  captain  said,  — 

"  Mr.  Nolan,  we  are  all  very  grateful  to  you  to-day  ;  you 
are  one  of  us  to-day ;  you  will  be  named  in  the  despatches." 


462  The  Man  without  a  Country. 

Arid  then  the  old  man  took  off  his  own  sword  of  ceremony, 
and  gave  it  to  Nolan,  and  made  him  put  it  on.  The  man 
told  me  this  who  saw  it.  Nolan  cried  like  a  baby,  and  well 
he  might.  He  had  not  worn  a  sword  since  that  infernal  day 
at  Fort  Adams.  But  always  afterwards,  on  occasions  of 
ceremony,  he  wore  that  quaint  old  French  sword  of  the 
Commodore's.  ^ 

The  captain  did  mention  him  in  the  despatches.!  It  was 
always  said  he  asked  that  he  might  be  pardoned.  He 
wrote  a  special  letter  to  the  Secretary  of  War.  But  nothing 
ever  came  of  it.  As  I  said,  that  was  about  the  time  when 
they  began  to  ignore  the  whole  transaction  at  Washington, 
and  when  Nolan's  imprisonment  began  to  carry  itself  on 
because  there  was  nobody  to  stop  it  without  any  new  orders 
from  home. 

I  have  heard  it  said  that  he  was  with  Porter  when  he  took 
possession  of  the  Nukahiwa  Islands.  Not  this  Porter,  you 
know,  but  old  Porter,  his  father,  Essex  Porter,  —  that  is,  the 
old  Essex  Porter,  not  this  Essex.  As  an  artillery  officer, 
who  had  seen  service  in  the  West,  Nolan  knew  more  about 
fortifications,  embrasures,  ravelins,  stockades,  and  all  that, 
than  any  of  them  did  ;  and  he  worked  with  a  right  good-will 
in  fixing  that  battery  all  right.  I  have  always  thought  it 
was  a  pity  Porter  did  not  leave  him  in  command  there  with 
Gamble.  That  would  have  settled  all  the  question  about 
his  punishment.  We  should  have  kept  the  islands,  and  at 
this  moment  we  should  have  one  station  in  the  Pacific 
Ocean.  Our  French  friends,  too,  when  they  wanted  this  lit- 
tle  watering-place,  would  have  found  it  was  preoccupied. 
But  Madison  and  the  Virginians,  of  course,  flung  all  that 


All  that  was  near  fifty  years  ago.  If  Nolan  was  thirty 
then,  he  must  'have  been  near  eighty  when  he  died.  He 
looked  sixty  when  he  was  forty.  t  But  he  never  seemed  to 
me  to  change  a  hair  afterwards.^  As  I  imagine  his  life,  from 
what  I  have  seen  and  heard  'of  it,  he  must  have  been  in 
every  sea,  and  yet  almost  never  on  land.  He  must  have 


The  Man  without  a  Country.  463 

known,  in  a  formal  way,  more  officers  in  our  service  than 
any  man  living  knows.  He  told  me  once,  with  a  grave 
smile,  that  no  man  in  the  world  lived  so  methodical  a  life  as  he. 
"  You  know  the  boys  say  I  am  the  Iron  Mask,  and  you  know 
how  busy  he  was."  He  said  it  did  not  do  for  any  one  to  try 
to  read  all  the  time,  more  than  to  do  anything  else  all  the  time  ; 
but  that  he  read  just  five  hours  a  day.  "  Then,"  he  said,  "  I 
keep  up  my  note-books,  writing  in  them  at  such  and  such 
hours  from  what  I  have  been  reading ;  and  I  include  in 
these  my  scrap-books."  These  were  very  curious  indeed. 
He  had  six  or  eight,  of  different  subjects.  There  was  one 
of  History,  one  of  Natural  Science,  one  which  he  called 
"  Odds  and  Ends."  But  they  were  not  merely  books  of  ex- 
tracts from  newspapers.  They  had  bits  of  plants  and  rib- 
bons, shells  tied  on,  and  carved  scraps  of  bone  and  wood, 
which  he  had  taught  the  men  to  cut  for  him,  and  they  were 
beautifully  illustrated.  He  drew  admirably.  He  had  some 
of  the  funniest  drawings  there,  and  some  of  the  most  pa- 
thetic, that  I  have  ever  seen  in  my  life.  I  wonder  who  will 
have  Nolan's  scrap-books. 

Well,  he  said  his  reading  and  his  notes  were  his  profes- 
sion, and  that  they  took  five  hours  and  two  hours  respec- 
tively of  each  day.  "  Then,"  said  he,  "  every  man  should 
have  a  diversion  as  well  as  a  profession.  My  Natural  His- 
tory is  my  diversion."  That  took  two  hours  a  day  more. 
The  men  used  to  bring  him  birds  and  fish,  but  on  a  long 
cruise  he  had  to  satisfy  himself  with  centipedes  and  cock- 
roaches and  such  small  game.  He  was  the  only  naturalist 
I  ever  met  who  knew  anything  about  the  habits  of  the 
house-fly  and  the  mosquito.  All  those  people  can  tell  you 
whether  they  are  Lepidoptera  or  Steptopotera ;  but  as  for 
telling  how  you  can  get  rid  of  them,  or  how  they  get  away 
from  you  when  you  strike  them,  —  why,  Linnaeus  knew  as 
little  of  that  as  John  Foy  the  idiot  did.  These  nine  hours 
made  Nolan's  regular  daily  "occupation."  The  rest  of  the 
time  he  talked  or  walked.  Till  he  grew  very  old,  he  went 
aloft  a  great  deal.  He  always  kept  up  his  exercise  ;  and  I 


464  The  Man  without  a  Country. 

never  heard  that  he  was  ill.  If  any  other  man  was  ill,  he 
was  the  kindest  nurse  in  the  world ;  and  he  knew  more  than 
half  the  surgeons  do.  Then  if  anybody  was  sick  or  died, 
or  if  the  captain  wanted  him  to  on  any  other  occasion,  he 
was  always  ready  to  read  prayers.  I  have  said  that  he 
read  beautifully. 

My  own  acquaintance  with  Philip  Nolan  began  six  or 
eight  years  after  the  War,  on  my  first  voyage  after  I  was 
appointed  a  midshipman.  It  was  in  the  first  days  after 
our  Slave  -Trade  treaty,  while  the  Reigning  House,  which 
was  still  the  House  of  Virginia,  had  still  a  sort  of  senti- 
mentalism  about  the  suppression  of  the  horrors  of  the 
Middle  Passage,  and  something  was  sometimes  done  that 
way.  We  were  in  the  South  Atlantic  on  that  business. 
From  the  time  I  joined,  I  believe  I  thought  Nolan  was 
a  sort  of  lay  chaplain,  —  a  chaplain  with  a  blue  coat  I 
never  asked  about  him.  Everything  in  the  ship  was 
strange  to  me.  I  knew  it  was  green  to  ask  questions, 
and  I  suppose  I  thought  there  was  a  "  Plain-Buttons  "  on 
every  ship.  We  had  him  to  dine  in  our  mess  once  a  week, 
and  the  caution  was  given  that  on  that  day  nothing  was  to 
be  said  about  home.  •  But  if  they  had  told  us  not  to  say  any- 
thing about  the  planet  Mars  or  the  Book  of  Deuteronomy, 
I  should  not  have  asked  why ;  there  were  a  great  many 
things  which  seemed  to  me  to  have  as  little  reason.  I  first 
came  to  understand  anything  about  "  the  man  without  a 
country"  one  day  when  we  overhauled  a  dirty  little  schoon- 
er which  had  slaves  on  board.  An  officer  was  sent  to  take 
charge  of  her,  and,  after  a  few  minutes,  he  sent  back  his 
boat  to  ask  that  some  one  might  be  sent  him  who  could 
speak  Portuguese.  We  were  all  looking  over  the  rail  when 
the  message  came,  and  we  all  wished  we  could  interpret, 
when  the  captain  asked  who  spoke  Portuguese.  But  none 
of  the  officers  did  ;  and  just  as  the  captain  was  sending  for- 
ward to  ask  if  any  of  the  people  could,  Nolan  stepped  out 
and  said  he  should  be  glad  to  interpret,  if  the  captain 
wished,  as  he  understood  the  language.  The  captain 


The  Man  without  a  Cotmtry.  465 

thanked  him,  fitted  out  another  boat  with  him,  and  in  this 
boat  it  was  my  luck  to  go. 

When  we  got  there,  it  was  such  a  scene  as  you  seldom 
see,  and  never  want  to.  Nastiness  beyond  account,  and 
chaos  run  loose  in  the  midst  of  the  nastiness.  There  were 
not  a  great  many  of  the  negroes  ;  but  by  way  of  making 
what  there  were  understand  that  they  were  free,  Vaughan 
had  had  their  hand-cuifs  and  ankle-cuffs  knocked  off,  and, 
for  convenience'  sake  was  putting  them  upon  the  rascals  of 
the  schooner's  crew.  The  negroes  were,  most  of  them,  out 
of  the  hold,  and  swarming  all  round  the  dirty  deck,  with  a 
central  throng  surrounding  Vaughan  and  addressing  him  in 
every  dialect  and  patois  of  a  dialect,  from  the  Zulu  click  up 
to  the  Parisian  of  Beledeljereed. 

As  we  came  on  deck,  Vaughan  looked  down  from  a  hogs- 
head, on  which  he  had  mounted  in  desperation,  and 
said,  — 

"  For  God's  love,  is  there  anybody  who  can  make  these 
wretches  understand  something  ?  The  men  gave  them  rum, 
and  that  did  not  quiet  them.  I  knocked  that  big  fellow 
down  twice,  and  that  did  not  soothe  him.  And  then  I 
talked  Choctaw  to  all  of  them  together ;  and  I  '11  be  hanged 
if  they  understood  that  as  well  as  they  understood  the 
English." 

Nolan  said  he  could  speak  Portuguese,  and  one  or  two 
fine-looking  Kroomen  were  dragged  out,  who,  as  it  had  been 
found  already,  had  worked  for  the  Portuguese  on  the  coast 
at  Fernando  Po. 

"  Tell  them  they  are  free,"  said  Vaughan ;  "  and  tell  them 
that  these  rascals  are  to  be  hanged  as  soon  as  we  can  get 
rope  enough." 

Nolan  "put  that  into  Spanish,"  —  that  is,  he  explained  it 
in  such  Portuguese  as  the  Kroomen  could  understand,  and 
they  in  turn  to  such  of  the  negroes  as  could  understand 
them.  Then  there  was  such  a  yell  of  delight,  clinching  of 
fists,  leaping  and  dancing,  kissing  of  Nolan's  feet,  and  a 
general  rush  made  to  the  hogshead  by  way  of  spontaneous 
20*  DD 


466  The  Mart  without  a  Country. 

worship  of  Vaughan,  as  the  deus  ex  machina  of  the  occa- 
sion. 

"Tell  them,"  said  Vaughan,  well  pleased,  "that  I  will 
take  them  all  to  Cape  Palmas." 

This  did  not  answer  so  well.  Cape  Palmas  was  practi- 
cally as  far  from  the  homes  of  most  of  them  as  New  Or- 
leans or  Rio  Janeiro  was  ;  that  is,  they  would  be  eternally 
separated  from  home  there.  And  their  interpreters,  as  we 
could  understand,  instantly  said,  " Ah,  non  Palmas"  and 
began  to  propose  infinite  other  expedients  in  most  voluble 
language.  Vaughan  was  rather  disappointed  at  this  result 
of  his  liberality,  and  asked  Nolan  eagerly  what  they  said. 
The  drops  stood  on  poor  Nolan's  white,  forehead,  as  he 
hushed  the  men  down,  and  said, — 

"  He  says,  <  Not  Palmas.'  He  says,  <  Take  us  home,  take 
us  to  our  own  country,  take  us  to  our  own  house,  take  us 
to  our  own  pickaninnies  and  our  own  women.'  He  says  he 
has  an  old  father  and  mother  who  will  die  if  they  do  not  see 
him.  And  this  one  says  he  left  his  people  all  sick,  and  pad- 
dled down  to  Fernando  to  beg  the  white  doctor  to  come  and 
help  them,  and  that  these  devils  caught  him  in  the  bay  just 
in  sight  of  home,  and  that  he  has  never  seen  anybody 
from  home  since  then.  And  this  one  says,"  choked  out 
Nolan,  "that  he  has  not  heard  a  word  from  his  home  in 
six  months,  while  he  has  been  locked  up  in  an  infernal  bar- 
racoon." 

Vaughan  always  said  he  grew  gray  himself  while  Nolan 
struggled  through  this  interpretation.  I,  who  did  not  un- 
derstand anything  of  the  passion  involved  in  it,  saw  that  the 
very  elements  were  melting  with  fervent  heat,  and  that 
something  was  to  pay  somewhere.  Even  the  negroes  them- 
selves stopped  howling,  as  they  saw  Nolan's  agony,  and 
Vaughan's  almost  equal  agony  of  sympathy.  As  quick  as 
he  could  get  words,  he  said, — 

"  Tell  them  yes,  yes,  yes  ;  tell  them  they  shall  go  to 
the  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  if  they  will.  If  I  sail  the 
schooner  through  the  Great  White  Desert,  they  shall  go 
home ! " 


The  Man  without  a  Country.  467 

* 
And  after  some  fashion  Nolan  said  so.     And  then  they 

all  fell  to  kissing  him  again,  and  wanted  to  rub  his  nose 
with  theirs. 

But  he  could  not  stand  it  long ;  and  getting  Vaughan  to  say 
he  might  go  back,  he  beckoned  me  down  into  our  boat.  As 
we  lay  back  in  the  stern-sheets  and  the  men  gave  way,  he 
said  to  me,  —  "  Youngs  ter^et-Tii^  "show  you  what  it  is  to  be 
without  a  family,  without  a  home,  and  without  a  country. 
And  if  you  are  ever  tempted  to  say  a  word  or  to  do  a  thing 
that  shall  put  a  bar  between  you  and  your  family,  your  home, 
and  your  country,  pray  God  in  His  mercy  to  take  you  that 
instant  home  to  His  own  heaven.  Stick  by  your  family, 
boy;  forget  you  have  a  self,  while  you  do  everything  for 
them.  Think  of  your  home,  boy ;  write  and  send,  and  talk 
about  it.  Let  it  be  nearer  and  nearer  to  your  thought,  the 
farther  you  have  to  travel  from  it ;  and  rush  back  to  it,  when 
you  are  free,  as  that  poor  black  slave  is  doing  now.  And  for 
your  country,  boy,"  and  the  words  rattled  in  his  throat,  "and 
for  that  flag,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  ship,  "never  dream 
a  dream  but  of  serving  her  as  she  bids  you,  though  the  ser- 
vice carry  you  through  a  thousand  hells^  No  matter  what 
happens  to  you,  no  matter  who  flatters  you  or  who  abuses 
you,  never  look  at  another  flag,  never  let  a  night  pass  but 
you  pray  God  to  bless  that  flagJ  Remember,  boy,  that  be- 
hind all  these  men  you  have  to  Qo  with,  behind  officers,  and 
government,  and  people  even,  there  is  the  Country  Herself, 
your  Country,  and  that  you  belong  to  Her  as  you  belong  to 
your  own  mother.  Stand  by  Her,  boy,  as  you  would  stand 
by  your  mother,  if  those  devils  there  had  got  hold  of  her 
to-day ! " 

I  was  frightened  to  death  by  his  calm,  hard  passion ;  but 
I  blundered  out,  that  I  would,  by  all  that  was  holy,  and  that 
I  had  never  thought  of  doing  anything  else.  He  hardly 
seemed  to  hear  me  ;  but  he  did,  almost  in  a  whisper,  say,  — 
"  Oh,  if  anybody  had  said  so  to  me  when  I  was  of  your 
age!" 

I  think  it  was  this  half-confidence  of  his,  which  I  never 


468  The  Man  without  a  Country. 

abused,  for  I  never  told  this  story  till  now,  which  afterward 
made  us  great  friends.  He  was  very  kind  to  me.  Often  he 
sat  up,  or  even  got  up,  at  night  to  walk  the  deck  with  me, 
when  it  was  my  watch.  He  explained  to  me  a  great  deal 
of  my  mathematics,  and  I  owe  to  him  my  taste  for  mathe 
matics.  He  lent  me  books,  and  helped  me  about  my  read- 
ing. He  never  alluded  4i  tkacaiy  to  his, story  again  ;  but 
from  one  and  another  officer  I  have  learned,  in  thirty  years, 
what  I  am  telling.  When  we  parted  from  him  in  St. 
Thomas  harbor,  at  the  end  of  our  cruise,  I  was  more  sorry 
than  I  can  tell.  I  was  very  glad  to  meet  him  again  in  1 830  ; 
and  later  in  life,  when  I  thought  I  had  some  influence  in 
Washington,  I  moved  heaven  and  earth  to  have  him  dis- 
charged. But  it  was  like  getting  a  ghost  out  6f  prison. 
They  pretended  there  was  no  such  man,  and  never  was 
such  a  man.  They  will  say  so  at  the  Department  now  ! 
Perhaps  they  do  not  know.  It  will  not  be  the  first  thing  in 
the  service  of  which  the  Department  appears  to  know 
nothing  ! 

There  is  a  story  that  Nolan  met  Burr  once  on  one  of 
our  vessels,  when  a  party  of  Americans  came  on  board  in 
the  Mediterranean.  But  this  I  believe  to  be  a  lie  ;  or, 
rather,  it  is  a  myth,  ben  trovato,  involving  a  tremendous 
blowing-up  with  which  he  sjmk  Burr,  —  asking  him  how  he 
liked  to  be  "without  a  country."  But  it  is  clear,  from 
Burr's  life,  that  nothing  of  the  sort  could  have  happened ; 
and  I  mention  this  only  as  an  illustration  of  the  stories 
which  get  a-going  where  there  is  the  least  mystery  at 
bottom. 

|J>o  poor  Philip  Nolan  had  his  wish  fulfilled.  I  know  but 
one  fate  more  dreadful :  it  is  the  fate  reserved  for  those 
men  who  shall  have  one  day  to  exile  themselves  from  their 
country  because  they  have  attempted  her  ruin,  and  shall 
have  at  the  same  time  to  see  the  prosperity  and  honor  to 
which  she  rises  when  she  has  rid  herself  of  them  and  their 
iniquities*?*}  The  wish  of  poor  Nolan,  as  we  all  learned  to 
call  him,  not  because  his  punishment  was  too  great,  but  be- 


The  Man  without  a  Country.  469 

cause  his  repentance  was  so  clear,  was  precisely  the  wish 
of  every  Bragg  and  Beauregard  who  broke  a  soldier's  oath 
two  years  ago,  and  of  every  Maury  and  Barren  who  broke 
a  sailor's.  I  do  not  know  how  often  they  have  repented.  I 
do  know  that  they  have  done  all  that  in  them  lay  that  they 
might  have  no  country,  —  that  all  the  honors,  associations, 
memories,  and -hopes  which  belong  to  "country"  might  be 
broken  up  into  little  shreds  and  distributed  to  the  winds.  I 
know,  too,  that  their  punishment,  as  they  vegetate  through 
what  is  left  of  life  to  them  in  wretched  Boulognes  and  Lei- 
cester Squares,  where  they  are  destined  to  upbraid  each 
other  till  they  die,  will  have  all  the  agony  of  Nolan's,  with 
the  added  pang  that  every  one  who  sees  them  will  see  them 
to  despise  and  to  execrate  them.  They  will  have  their  wish, 
like  him. 

For  him,  poor  fellow,  he  repented  of  his  folly,  and  then, 
like  a  man,  submitted  to  the  fate  he  had  asked  for.  He 
never  intentionally  added  to  the  difficulty  or  delicacy  of  the 
charge  of  those  who  had  him  in  hold.  Accidents  would  hap- 
pen ;  but  they  never  happened  from  his  fault.  Lieutenant 
Truxton  told  me,  that,  when  Texas  was  annexed,  there  was 
a  careful  discussion  among  the  officers,  whether  they  should 
get  hold  of  Nolan's  handsome  set  of  maps,  and  cut  Texas 
out  of  it,  —  from  the  map  of  the  world  and  the  map  of 
Mexico.  The  United  States  had  been  cut  out  when  the 
atlas  was  bought  for  him.  But  it  was  voted,  rightly  enough, 
that  to  do  this  would  be  virtually  to  reveal  to  him  what  had 
happened,  or,  as  Harry  Cole  said,  to  make  him  think  Old 
Burr  had  succeeded.  So  it  was  from  no  fault  of  Nolan's 
that  a  great  botch  happened  at  my  own  table,  when,  for  a 
short  time,  I  was  in  command  of  the  George  Washington 
corvette,  on  the  South-American  station.  We  were  lying  in 
the  La  Plata,  and  some  of  the  officers,  who  had  been  on 
shore,  and  had  just  joined  again,  were  entertaining  us  with 
accounts  of  their  misadventures  in  riding  the  half-wild 
horses  of  Buenos  Ayres.  Nolan  was  at  table,  and  was  in 
an  unusually  bright  and  talkative  mood.  Some  story  of  a 


470  The  Man  without  a  Country. 

tumble  reminded  him  of  an  adventure  of  his  own,  when  he 
was  catching  wild  horses  in  Texas  with  his  brother  Stephen, 
at  a  time  when  he  must  have  been  quite  a  boy.  He  told  the 
story  with  a  good  deal  of  spirit,  —  so  much  so,  that  the 
silence  which  often  follows  a  good  story  hung  over  the  table 
for  an  instant,  to  be  broken  by  Nolan  himself.  For  he 
asked,  perfectly  unconsciously, — 

"  Pray,  what  has  become  of  Texas  ?  After  the  Mexicans 
got  their  independence,  I  thought  that  province  of  Texas 
would  come  forward  very  fast  It  is  really  one  of  the  finest 
regions  on  earth ;  it  is  the  Italy  of  this  continent.  But  I 
have  not  seen  or  heard  a  word  of  Texas  for  near  twenty 
years." 

There  were  two  Texan  officers  at  the  table.  The  reason 
he  had  never  heard  of  Texas  was  that  Texas  and  her  affairs 
had  been  painfully  cut  out  of  his  newspapers  since  Austin 
began  his  settlements  ;  so  that,  while  he  read  of  Honduras 
and  Tamaulipas,  and  till,  quite  lately,  of  California,  —  this 
virgin  province,  in  which  his  brother  had  travelled  so  far, 
and,  I  believe,  had  died,  had  ceased  to  be  to  him.  Waters 
and  Williams,  the  two  Texas  men,  looked  grimly  at  each 
other,  and  tried  not  to  laugh.  Edward  Morris  had  his 
attention  attracted  by  the  third  link  in  the  chain  of  the  cap- 
tain's chandelier.  Watrous  was  seized  with  a  convulsion 
of  sneezing.  Nolan  himself  saw  that  something  was  to  pay, 
he  did  not  know  what.  And  I,  as  master  of  the  feast,  had 
to  say,  —  . 

"  Texas  is  out  of  the  map,  Mr.  Nolan.  Have  you  seen 
Captain  Back's  curious  account  of  Sir  Thomas  Roe's  Wel- 
come?" 

After  that  cruise  I  never  saw  Nolan  again.  I  wrote  to 
him  at  least  twice  a  year,  for  in  that  voyage  we  became  even 
confidentially  intimate ;  but  he  never  wrote  to  me.  The 
other  men  tell  me  that  in  those  fifteen  years  he  aged  very 
fast,  as  well  he  might  indeed,  but  that  he  was  still  the  same 
gentle,  uncomplaining,  silent  sufferer  that  he  ever  was,  bear- 
ing as  best  he  could  his  self-appointed  punishment, — 


The  Man  without  a  Country.  471 

rather  less  social,  perhaps,  with  new  men  whom  he  did  not 
know,  but  more  anxious,  apparently,  than  ever  to  serve 
and  befriend  and  teach  the  boys,  some  of  whom  fairly 
seemed  to  worship  him.  And  now  it  seems  the  dear  old 
fellow  is  dead.  He  has  found  a  home  at  last,  and  a 
country. 

Since  writing  this,  and  while  considering  whether  or  no 
I  would  print  it,  as  a  warning  to  the  young  Nolans  and 
Vallandighams  and  Tatnals  of  to-day  of  what  it  is  to 
throw  away  a  country,  I  have  received  from  Danforth,  who 
is  on  board  the  Levant,  a  letter  which  gives  an  account 
of  Nolan's  last  hours.  It  removes  all  my  doubts  about 
telling  this  story. 

To  understand  the  first  words  of  the  letter,  the  non-pro- 
fessional reader  should  remember  that  after  1817,  the  posi- 
tion of  every  officer  who  had  Nolan  in  charge  was  one  of 
the  greatest  delicacy.  The  government  had  failed  to  renew 
the  order  of  1807  regarding  him.  What  was  a  man  to  do  ? 
Should  he  let  him  go  ?  What,  then,  if  he  were  called  to 
account  by  the  Department  for  violating  the  order  of  1807  ? 
Should  he  keep  him  ?  What,  then,  if  Nolan  should  be  lib- 
erated some  day,  and  should  bring  an  action  for  false  impris- 
onment or  kidnapping  against  every  man  who  had  had  him 
in  charge  ?  I  urged  and  pressed  this  upon  Southard,  and  I 
have  reason  to  think  that  other  officers  did  the  same  thing. 
But  the  Secretary  always  said,  as  they  so  often  do  at  Wash- 
ington, that  there  were  no  special  orders  to  give,  and  that 
we  must  act  on  our  own  judgment.  That  means,  "  If  you 
succeed,  you  will  be  sustained  ;  if  you  fail,  you  will  be  dis- 
avowed." Well,  as  Danforth  says,  all  that  is  over  now, 
though  I  do  not  know  but  I  expose  myself  to  a  criminal  pro- 
secution on  the  evidence  of  the  very  revelation  I  am  mak- 
ing. 

Here  is  the  letter :  — 


472  The  Man  without  a  Country. 

LEVANT,  2°  2'  S.  @  131°  W. 

"  DEAR  FRED,  —  I  try  to  find  heart  and  life  to  tell  you 
that  it  is  all  over  with  dear  old  Nolan.  I  have  been  with 
him  on  this  voyage  more  than  I  ever  was,  and  I  can  under- 
stand wholly  now  the  way  in  which  you  used  to  speak  of  the 
dear  old  fellow.  I  could  see  that  he  was  not  strong,  but  I 
had  no  idea  the  end  was  so  near.  The  doctor  has  been 
watching  him  very  carefully,  and  yesterday  morning  came 
to  me  and  told  me  that  Nolan  was  not  so  well,  and  had  not 
left  his  state-room,  —  a  thing  I  never  remember  before.  He 
had  let  the  doctor  come  and  see  him  as  he  lay  there,  —  the 
first  time  the  doctor  had  been  in  the  state-room,  —  and  he 
said  he  should  like  to  see  me.  O  dear  !  do  you  remember 
the  mysteries  we  boys  used  to  invent  about  his  room,  in 
the  old  Intrepid  days  ?  Well,  I  went  in,  and  there,  to  be 
sure,  the  poor  fellow  lay  in  his  berth,  smiling  pleasantly  as 
he  gave  me  his  hand,  but  looking  very  frail.  I  could  not 
help  a  glance  round,  which  showed  me  what  a  little  shrine 
he  had  made  of  the  box  he  was  lying  in.  The  stars  and 
stripes  were  triced  up  above  and  around  a  picture  of  Wash- 
ington, and  he  had  painted  a  majestic  eagle,  with  lightnings 
blazing  from  his  beak  and  his  foot  just  clasping  the  whole 
globe,  which  his  wings  overshadowed.  The  dear  old  boy 
saw  my  glance,  and  said,  with  a  sad  smile,  '  Here,  you  see, 
I  have  a  country  ! '  And  then  he  pointed  to  the  foot  of  his 
bed,  where  I  had  not  seen  before  a  great  map  of  the  United 
States,  as  he  had  drawn  it  from  memory,  and  which  he  had 
there  to  look  upon  as  he  lay.  Quaint,  queer  old  names  were 
on  it,  in  large  letters  :  '  Indiana  Territory,' '  Mississippi  Ter- 
ritory,' and  '  Louisiana  Territory,'  as  I  suppose  our  fathers 
learned  such  things :  but  the  old  fellow  had  patched  in 
Texas,  too ;  he  had  carried  his  western  boundary  all  the 
way  to  the  Pacific,  but  on  that  shore  he  had  denned  noth- 
ing. 

" '  O  Danforth,'  he  said,  '  I  know  I  am  dying.  I  cannot 
get  home.  Surely  you  will  tell  me  something  now  ?  —  Stop  ! 
stop  !  Do  not  speak  till  I  say  what  I  am  sure  you  know, 


The  Man  without  a  Country.  473 

that  there  is  not  in  this  ship,  that  there  is  not  in  America, 
—  God  bless  her  !  —  a  more  loyal  man  than  I.  There  can- 
not be  a  man  who  loves  the  old  flag  as  I  do,  or  prays 
for  it  as  I  do,  or  hopes  for  it  as  I  do.  There  are  thirty- 
four  stars  in  it  now,  Danforth.  I  thank  God  for  that, 
though  I  do  not  know  what  their  names  are.  There  has 
never  been  one  taken  away :  I  thank  God  for  that.  I  know 
by  that,  that  there  has  never  been  any  successful  Burr.  O 
Danforth,  Danforth,'  he  sighed  out,  'how  like  a  wretched 
night's  dream  a  boy's  idea  of  personal  fame  or  of  separate 
sovereignty  seems,  when  one  looks  back  on  it  after  such  a 
life  as  mine  ?  But  tell  me,  —  tell  me  something,  —  tell  me 
everything,  Danforth,  before  I  die  ! ' 

"  Ingham,  I  swear  to  you  that  I  felt  like  a  monster  that  I  had 
not  told  him  everything  before.  Danger  or  no  danger,  deli- 
cacy or  no  delicacy,  who  was  I,  that  I  should  have  been  act- 
ing the  tyrant  all  this  time  over  this  dear,  sainted  old  man, 
who  had  years  ago  expiated,  in  his  whole  manhood's  life, 
the  madness  of  a  boy's  treason  ?  '  Mr.  Nolan,'  said  I,  '  I 
will  tell  you  everything  you  ask  about.  Only,  where  shall  I 
begin  ? ' 

"  O  the  blessed  smile  that  crept  over  his  white  face  !  and 
he  pressed  my  hand  and  said,  '  God  bless  you  ! '  '  Tell 
me  their  names,'  he  said,  and  he  pointed  to  the  stars  on  the 
flag.  *  The  last  I  know  is  Ohio.  My  father  lived  in  Ken- 
tucky. But  I  have  guessed  Michigan  and  Indiana  and 
Mississippi,  —  that  was  where  Fort  Adams  is,  —  they  make 
twenty.  But  where  are  your  other  fourteen  ?  You  have  not 
cut  up  any  of  the  old  ones,  I  hope  ? ' 

"  Well,  that  was  not  a  bad  text,  and  I  told  him  the  names 
in  as  good  order  as  I  could,  and  he  bade  me  take  down  his 
beautiful  map  and  draw  them  in  as  I  best  could  with  my 
pencil.  He  was  wild  with  delight  about  Texas,  told  me  how 
his  brother  died  there  :  he  had  marked  a  gold  cross  where 
he  supposed  his  brother's  grave  was ;  and  he  had  guessed 
at  Texas.  Then  he  was  delighted  as  he  saw  California 
and  Oregon ;  —  that,  he  said,  he  had  suspected  partly,  be- 


474  The  Man  without  a  Country. 

cause  he  had  never  been  permitted  to  land  on  that  shore, 
though  the  ships  were  there  so  much.  *  And  the  men,'  said 
he,  laughing,  *  brought  off  a  good  deal  besides  furs.'  Then 
he  went  back  —  heavens,  how  far  !  —  to  ask  about  the  Chesa- 
peake, and  what  was  done  to  Barren  for  surrendering  her  to 
the  Leopard,  and  whether  Burr  ever  tried  again,  —  and  he 
ground  his  teeth  with  the  only  passion  he  showed.  But  in 
a  moment  that  was  over,  and  he  said,  '  God  forgive  me,  for  I 
am  sure  I  forgive  him.'  Then  he  asked  about  the  old 
war,  —  told  me  the  true  story  of  his  serving  the  gun  the 
day  we  took  the  Java,  —  asked  about  dear  old  David  Por- 
ter, as  he  called  him.  Then  he  settled  down  more  quietly, 
and  very  happily,  to  hear  me  tell  in  an  hour  the  history  of 
fifty  years. 

"  How  I  wished  it  had  been  somebody  who  knew  some- 
thing !  But  I  did  as  well  as  I  could.  I  told  him  of  the 
English  war.  I  told  him  about  Fulton  and  the  steamboat 
beginning.  I  told  him  about  old  Scott,  and  Jackson  ;  told 
him  all  I  could  think  about  the  Mississippi,  and  New  Or- 
leans, and  Texas,  and  his  own  old  Kentucky.  And  do  you 
think  he  asked  who  was  in  command  of  the  *  Legion  of  the 
West.'  I  told  him  it  was  a  very  gallant  officer  named  Grant, 
and  that,  by  our  last  news,  he  was  about  to  establish  his 
head-quarters  at  Vicksburg.  Then,  'Where  was  Vicks- 
burg?'  I  worked  that  out  on  the  map;  it  was  about  a 
hundred  miles,  more  or  less,  above  his  old  Fort  Adams ; 
and  I  thought  Fort  Adams  must  be  a  ruin  now.  'It  must 
be  at  old  Vick's  plantation,'  said  he  ;  'well,  that  is  a 
change  ! ' 

"  I  tell  you,  Ingham,  it  was  a  hard  thing  to  condense  the 
history  of  half  a  century  into  that  talk  with  a  sick  man. 
And  I  do  not  now  know  what  I  told  him,  —  of  emigration,  and 
the  means  of  it,  —  of  steamboats,  and  railroads,  and  tele- 
graphs,—  of  inventions,  and  books,  and  literature,  —  of 
the  colleges,  and  West  Point,  and  the  Naval  School,  —  but 
with  the  queerest  interruptions  that  ever  you  heard.  You 
see  it  was  Robinson  Crusoe  asking  all  the  accumulated 
questions  of  fifty-six  years  ! 


The  Man  without  a  Country.  475 

"  I  remember  he  asked,  all  of  a  sudden,  who  was  Presi- 
dent now ;  and  when  I  told  him,  he  asked  if  old  Abe  was 
General  Benjamin  Lincoln's  son.  He  said  he  met  old  Gen- 
eral Lincoln,  when  he  was  quite  a  boy  himself,  at  some  In- 
dian treaty.  I  said  no,  that  old  Abe  was  a  Kentuckian  like 
himself,  but  I  could  not  tell  him  of  what  family ;  he  had 
worked  up  from  the  ranks.  '  Good  for  him  ! '  cried  Nolan  ; 
'  I  am  glad  of  that.  As  I  have  brooded  and  wondered,  I 
have  thought  our  danger  was  in  keeping  up  those  regular 
successions  in  the  first  families.'  Then  I  got  talking  about 
my  visit  to  Washington.  I  told  him  of  meeting  the  Oregon 
Congressman,  Harding ;  I  told  him  about  the  Smithsonian, 
and  the  Exploring  Expedition ;  I  told  him  about  the  Capi- 
tol, and  the  statues  for  the  pediment,  and  Crawford's  Liber- 
ty, and  Greenough's  Washington  :  Ingham,  I  told  him 
everything  I  could  think  of  that  would  show  the  grand- 
eur of  his  country  and  its  prosperity ;  but  I  could  not 
make  up  my  mouth  to  tell  him  a  word  about  this  infernal 
Rebellion ! 

"  And  he  drank  it  in,  and  enjoyed  it  as  I  cannot  tell  you. 
He  grew  more  and  more  silent,  yet  I  never  thought  he  was 
tired  or  faint.  I  gave  him  a  glass  of  water,  but  he  just  wet 
his  lips,  and  told  me  not  to  go  away.  Then  he  asked  me 
to  bring  the  Presbyterian  '  Book  of  Public  Prayer,'  which 
lay  there,  and  said,  with  a  smile",  that  it  would  open  at  the 
right  place,  —  and  so  it  did.  There  was  his  double  red 
mark  down  the  page  5  and  I  knelt  down  and  read,  and  he 
repeated  with  me,  '  For  ourselves  and  our  country,  O  gra- 
cious God,  we  thank  Thee,  that,  notwithstanding  our  mani*- 
fold  transgressions  of  Thy  holy  laws,  Thou  hast  continued 
to  us  Thy  marvellous  kindness,'  —  and  so  to  the  end  of  that 
thanksgiving.  Then  he  turned  to  the  end  of  the  same  book, 
and  I  read  the  words  more  familiar  to  me,  —  '  Most  heartily 
we  beseech  Thee  with  Thy  favor  to  behold  and  bless  Thy 
servant,  the  President  of  the  United  States,  and  all  others 
in  authority,'  — and  the  rest  of  the  Episcopal  collect.  *  Dan- 
forth,'  said  he,  « I  have  repeated  those  prayers  night  and 


476  The  Man  without  a  Country. 

morning,  it  is  now  fifty-five  years.'  And  then  he  said  he 
would  go  to  sleep.  He  bent  me  down  over  him  and  kissed 
me  ;  and  he  said,  '  Look  in  my  Bible,  Danforth,  when  I  am 
gone.'  And  I  went  away. 

"  But  I  had  no  thought  it  was  the  end.  I  thought  he  was 
tired  and  would  sleep.  I  knew  he  was  happy  and  I  want- 
ed him  to  be  alone. 

"  But  in  an  hour,  when  the  doctor  went  in  gently,  he 
found  Nolan  had  breathed  his  life  away  with  a  smile.  He 
had  something  pressed  close  to  his  lips.  It  was  his  father's 
badge  of  the  Order  of  Cincinnati. 

"  We  looked  in  his  Bible,  and  there  was  a  slip  of  paper, 
at  the  place  where  he  had  marked  the  text,  — 

" '  They  desire  a  country,  even  a  heavenly :  wherefore 
God  is  not  ashamed  to  be  called  their  God :  for  he  hath 
prepared  for  them  a  city.' 

"  On  this  slip  of  paper  he  had  written,  — 

"  '  Bury  me  in  the  sea ;  it  has  been  my  home,  and  I  love 
it.  But  will  not  some  one  set  up  a  stone  for  my  memory  at 
Fort  Adams  or  at  Orleans,  that  my  disgrace  may  not  be 
more  than  I  ought  to  bear  ?  Say  on  it,  — 

"  '  In  Memory  of 

'"PHILIP    NOLAN, 

"'Lieutenant  hi  the  Army  of  the  United  States. 

" '  He  loved  his  country  as  no  other  man  has  loved  her  ; 
but  no  man  deserved  less  at  her  hands.'  " 


NOTE   BY   THE   AUTHOR. 

THIS  story  was  written  in  the  summer  of  1863,  as  a  contribu- 
tion, however  humble,  towards  the  formation  of  a  just  and  true 
national  sentiment,  or  sentiment  of  love  to  the  nation.     It  was  at 


The  Man  'without  a  Country.  477 

the  time  when  Mr.  Vallandigham  had  been  sent  across  the  border. 
It  was  my  wish,  indeed,  that  the  story  might  be  printed  before  the 
autumn  elections  of  that  year,  — as  my  "  testimony"  regarding  the 
principles  involved  in  them,  — but  circumstances  delayed  its  publi- 
cation till  the  December  number  of  the  Atlantic  appeared. 

It  is  wholly  a  fiction,  "founded  on  fact."  The  facts  on  which 
it  is  founded  are  these,  —  that  Aaron  Burr  sailed  down  the  Missis- 
sippi River  in  1805,  again  in  1806,  and  was  tried  for  treason  in 
1807.  The  rest,  with  one  exception  to  be  noticed,  is  all  fictitious. . 

It  was  my  intention  that  the  story  should  have  been  published 
with  no  author's  name,  other  than  that  of  Captain  Frederic  Ing- 
ham,  U.  S.  N.  Whether  writing  under  his  name  or  my  own,  I 
have  taken  no  liberties  with  history  other  than  such  as  every  writer 
of  fiction  is  privileged  to  take,  —  indeed,  must  take,  if  fiction  is  to 
be  written  at  all. 

The  story  having  been  once  published,  it  passed  out  of  my 
hands.  From  that  moment  it  has  gradually  acquired  different 
accessories,  for  which  I  am  not  responsible.  •  Thus  I  have  heard 
it  said,  that  at  one  bureau  of  the  Navy  Department  they  say  that 
Nolan  was  pardoned,  in  fact,  and  returned  home  to  die.  At 
another  bureau,  I  am  told,  the  answer  to  questions  is,  that,  though  it 
is  true  that  an  officer  was  kept  abroad  all  his  life,  his  name  was  not 
Nolan.  A  venerable  friend  of  mine  in  Boston,  who  discredits  all 
tradition,  still  recollects  this  "Nolan  court-martial."  One  of  the 
most  accurate  of  my  younger  friends  had  noticed  Nolan's  death  in 
the  newspaper,  but  recollected  "  that  it  was  in  September,  and  not 
in  August."  A  lady  in  Baltimore  writes  me,  I  believe  in  good  faith, 
that  Nolan  has  two  widowed  sisters  residing  in  that  neighborhood. 
A  correspondent  of  the  Philadelphia  Despatch  believed  "the  arti- 
cle untrue,  as  the  United  States  corvette  Levant  was  lost  at  sea 
nearly  three  years  since,  between  San  Francisco  and  San  Juan." 
I  may  remark  that  this  uncertainty  as  to  the  place  of  her  loss  rath- 
er adds  to  the  probability  of  her  turning^up  after  three  years  in 
Lat.  2°  n'  S.,  Long.  131°  W.  A  writer  in  the  New  Orleans  Pica- 
yune, in  a  careful  historical  paper,  explained  at  length  that  I  had 
been  mistaken  all  through  ;  that  Philip  Nolan  never  went  to  sea, 
but  to  Texas ;  that  there  he  was  shot  in  battle,  March  21,  1801, 
and  by  orders  from  Spain  every  fifth  man  of  his  party  was  to  be 
shot,  had  they  not  died  in  prison*.  Fortunately,  however,  he  left. 


478  The  Man  without  a  Country. 

his  papers  and  maps,  which  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  friend  of  the 
Picayune's  correspondent.  This  friend  proposes  to  publish  them, 
—  and  the  public  will  then  have,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  the  true  history 
of  Philip  Nolan,  the  man  without  a  country. 

With  all  these  continuations,  however,  I  have  nothing  to  do.  I 
can  only  repeat  that  my  Philip  Nolan  is  pure  fiction.  I  cannot 
send  his  scrap-book  to  my  friend  who  asks  for  it,  because  I  have  it 
not  to  send. 

I  remembered  when  I  was  collecting  material  for  my  story,  that 
in  General  Wilkinson's  galimatias,  which  he  calls  his  "  Memoirs," 
is  frequent  reference  to  a  Jorkins-like  partner  of  his,  of  the  name 
of  Nolan,  who,  at  some  time  near  the  beginning  of  this  century, 
was  killed  in  Texas.  Whenever  Wilkinson  found  himself  in 
rather  a  deeper  bog  than  usual,  he  used  to  justify  himself  by 
saying  that  he  could  not  explain  such  or  such  a  charge  because 
' '  the  papers  referring  to  it  were  lost  when  Mr.  Nolan  was  im- 
prisoned in  Texas. "  Finding  this  mythical  character  in  the  myth- 
ical legends  of  a  mythical  time,  I  took  the  liberty  to  give  him 
a  brother,  rather  more  mythical,  whose  adventures  should  be  on 
the  seas.  I  had  the  impression  that  Wilkinson's  friend  was 
named  Stephen,  —  and  as  such  he  is  spoken  of  in  this  stoiy  at 
page  470.  As  this  book  goes  to  press,  I  find  that  the  New  Or- 
leans paper  is  right  in  saying  that  the  Texan  hero  was  named 
Philip.  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  changed  him  inadvertently  to 
Stephen.  It  is  too  late  for  me  to  change  him  back  again.  I  re- 
member to  have  heard  a  distinguished  divine  preach  on  St.  Phil- 
ip's day,  by  accident,  a  discourse  on  the  life  of  the  Evangelist 
Stephen.  If  such  a  mistake  can  happen  in  the  best  regulated 
of  pulpits,  I  must  be  pardoned  for  mistaking  Philip  for  Stephen 
Nolan.  The  reader  will  observe  that  he  was  dead  some  years  be- 
fore the  action  of  this  story  begins.  In  the  same  connection  I 
must  add  that  Mr.  P.  Nolan,  teamster  in  Boston,  whose  horse  and 
cart  I  venture  to  recommend  to  an  indulgent  public,  is  no  relation 
of  the  hero  of  this  tale. 

If  any  reader  considers  the  invention  of  a  brother  too  great  a  lib- 
erty to  take  in  fiction,  I  venture  to  remind  him  that  "  'T  is  sixty 
years  since  "  ;  and  that  I  should  have  the  highest  authority  in  lit- 
erature even  for  much  greater  liberties  taken  with  annals  so  far  re- 
moved from  our  time. 


The  Man  without  a  Country.  479 

A  Boston  paper,  in  noticing  the  story  of  "My  Double,"  con- 
tained in  another  part  of  this  collection,  said  it  was  highly  improb- 
able. I  have  always  agreed  with  that  critic.  I  confess  I  have  the 
same  opinion  of  the  story  of  Philip  Nolan.  It  passes  on  ships 
which  had  no  existence,  is  vouched  for  by  officers  who  never  lived. 
Its  hero  is  in  two  or  three  places  at  the  same  time,  under  a  pro- 
cess wholly  impossible  under  any  conceivable  administration  of 
affairs.  In  reply,  therefore,  to  a  kind  adviser  in  Connecticut,  who 
told  me  that  the  story  must  be  apologized  for,  because  it  was  doing 
great  injury  to  the  national  cause  by  asserting  such  continued  cru- 
elty of  the  Federal  Government  through  a  half-century,  I  must  be 
permitted  to  say  that  the  public,  like  the  Supreme  Court  of  the 
United  States,  maybe  supposed  "to  know  something." 


Cambridge  :  Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


RETURN  TO  the  circulation  desk  of  any 
University  of  California  Library 
or  to  the 

NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
Bldg.  400,  Richmond  Field  Station 
University  of  California 
Richmond,  CA  94804-4698 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 
2-month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling 

(415)642-6233 
1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books 

to  NRLF 
Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days 

prior  to  due  date 


DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


MAY  4   1988 


RKELEY 


JUN16J 

LD  21-100rn-2,'55 
(B139s22)476 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


YC   14191 


Mi 1967 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


